


Possessions

by lostwithoutmydoctor (orphan_account)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Codependency, Fantasy, Gen, M/M, vampire
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-11
Updated: 2012-02-08
Packaged: 2017-10-29 08:55:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 29
Words: 229,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/318031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/lostwithoutmydoctor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes was a bored, socially isolated vampire living in London, and John Watson was just a bloke looking for a flatshare after returning home from a war that left him a wounded, broken man. Lets all take a moment to thank Mike Stamford for bringing them together. Maybe, just maybe, they'll survive together instead of fading away apart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a roleplay I did a long while ago, and as such, it's not going to be the best of quality. Some of these posts were written at 3am when we were both half out of it, or on bad days, or just when we weren't feeling it. There are a lot of issues with posting roleplay - not the least of which FUCKED UP ROLEPLAY TIMELINES. You'll see what I mean later. Also, it's very choppy at times.
> 
> Basically, I am just posting this for a few people who wanted to read after hearing me talk about it. But if you want to read it, I hope you enjoy it!
> 
> Now. On with the Vamplock.

John Watson had never seen a man so ethereal in his life. The way that Mike's friend- if he could be called that, anyway, since Mike didn't seem very close to him- looked was simply disconcerting. John tried not to stare, tried not to frown, since it simply wasn't polite, but... Where did someone get legs that long? Or skin that pale? It was practically translucent. And his EYES... Christ. Shouldn't the man be off in a magazine add somewhere, or on the telly in some bad daytime soap? In John's experience, this was not the way that real people were. His presence here, in a lab, doing god knew what, was simply ridiculous. Still, he seemed to be rather sanitary, which was a big plus as far as future flatmate went, and John knew the importance of being kind to anyone who was willing to make it possible for him to live with a roof over his head. He cleared his throat, fingers clenching nervously around the handle of his cane. He let Mike introduce him as a friend from St. Barts. “His name's John Watson.”

Sherlock glanced up from where he had been staring in to a microscope, attention fully focused on what he was examining, even though he had heard Mike and someone else from the moment they had entered the hall. He briefly glanced over Mike, taking in any changes from the last time they had met, before turning his attention to the extra – John Watson, was it? The name sounded familiar, but then again, names were all reused eventually. Perhaps he’d met an ancestor of this man’s once? It seemed likely. There was something about the man, not in the face but in the way he held himself and the look in his eyes…Sherlock felt, oddly, as if he had met him already. He was not unattractive, and Sherlock found his eyes lingering slightly. “Ah, Mike, I see you’ve brought me a potential flatmate.” Obvious. “Afghanistan or Iraq?” He asked John. Also obvious.

John frowned, startled, and looked over at Mike. “Did you tell him about me?” He asked, but was quickly cut off. “Didn’t say a word.” Mike answered, a bit of a smug smile on his face. John turned back to the other man. “Afghanistan. How did you guess?” A brief bout of paranoia made him wonder if he was being set up here for something, but he shoved it aside and waiting for this crazy, gorgeous man to explain himself.

Sherlock’s lips quirked up in a half smile. He loved this part, the shock on their faces, the inevitable process in to embarrassment or anger. No one ever said he was a good man, or even a decent one. “I didn’t guess, I saw.” In rapid time he listed all of the things he could very easily see from this man – the wound, the time in the army, the psychosomatic limp and the therapist, even his brothers drinking habit. That last had been obvious from the instant John had pulled out his phone to check the time. Sherlock could very easily see the scratches near the charge port, what with his enhanced vision.

John’s eyes were wide as he listened to Sherlock deduce incredibly private things about himself, all in a quick, impersonal voice, as if it were no big deal. Bloody hell, what had he gotten himself in to? But there was no denying that it was amazing, that he could somehow know all of this just from looking at John. It was remarkable, simply remarkable. “That’s brilliant,” He said honestly, eyes still wide in what was probably awe. He felt the need to inform Sherlock of how amazing it was, even if he already knew that. And judging by that smug little tilt to the other man’s lips, he probably did. “How do you do it?”

Sherlock resisted the urge to blink in surprise. That was odd. No anger, only a hint of embarrassment, no cries of an invasion of privacy. Even Mike seemed startled. But the mask was still in place, nothing of his emotions had crossed his face, and so he simply inclined his head and responded. “Simple observation. Anyone could do it if they weren’t so dull.” He began to recite everything he saw, tying them together to get the whole picture that was John Watson. Well, the outer John Watson. There was clearly another layer to this man. It was odd- he had always gotten excitement from throwing information in everyone’s faces, showing them how stupid they were, but this time it was more like he was giving the information away simply to see John’s eyes light up, as if he had a right to make the man smile. It, just like John’s features, was oddly familiar. Which made the whole thing not the least bit disturbing.

Unlike Sherlock’s, John’s face was completely open now, and easy to read, not because he was piss poor at hiding how he was feeling, but because he had no reason to hide it. There was no reason to keep it from Sherlock, that he was amazing, even if the man probably already knew. John looked at Sherlock in wonder as he explained, and John slowly came to understand that Sherlock wasn’t playing any tricks. Everything he said was true. He really WAS that clever. “Extraordinary.” John commented, eyes lighting up exactly the way Sherlock had hoped they would, grin not abating a bit. He ignored the subtle insult that Sherlock had flung at him, as well as the tiny, inconsequential feeling that Sherlock was somehow invading his privacy. That was usually the feeling that people latched onto first. “Do you do that all the time?” He asked, genuinely interested in Sherlock and his gift.

This time Sherlock could not resist the urge to blink in shock. This was simply astounding. It was not often Sherlock Holmes came by something that shocked him, but this little man was beyond surprising. Sherlock had had centuries to watch humanity and to experiment with it. The logical progression would have been for John to either lapse in to awkward silence or to rage at him for bandying about personal things aloud - and in the presence of someone else, even! Instead, John calls him extraordinary and inquires as to how he does what he does. Sherlock clears his throat before he answers. "Yes. All the time.” The surprise has momentarily made him forget the smell of John's blood, which is in itself a surprise.

John took a subconscious, interested step towards Sherlock. "That's probably a bang-up party trick." He said, more animated than he had been when he'd hobbled in after Mike. "No, no, what am I saying, it's probably dead useful. Well, what do you then? And who ARE you?" John's life had been endlessly dull, ever since he'd been shipped back to England. His leg and shoulder had bothered him mercilessly, usually more an annoyance than anything, and his nightmares made it difficult to sleep. He often got stress headaches even though he spent the majority of his day on the sofa watching telly. And this- He, Mike's friend, the model, the bloody genius- might have just been the first interesting thing to happen to him since then. John wasn't going to let it be wasted. He wanted to know. And he knew, now, that he wanted this man to be his flatmate.

Sherlock took an instinctive step back as John stepped forward and for a moment his ego twinged at John calling his deductions a party trick, but he let it slide as John backtracked. "The name is Sherlock Holmes. I'm a consulting detective - the world's only." He couldn't keep the note of pride out of his voice. Pah, the idea of sin is useless. Pride is a useful thing. And he has never believed in the idea of life after death. His race is proof against that.

Something in John recognized Sherlock's almost defensive stance, and he didn't move any closer. "And what is it exactly that a consulting detective does?" he asked, still very interested and very open. Sherlock Holmes. Now that wasn't a name you heard every day. It wasn't outrageous but it was...Strange. Special, said the completely inexplicable shudder he felt when he heard it. It wasn't quite like deja vu, the name was completely unfamiliar, but it was almost the feeling of returning to one's home after a long vacation.  Like returning to London, only far, far more pleasant.  He shook it off. Perhaps something in the lab smelled like his mum's cooking, or something.

Sherlock honestly could not understand John's fascination, but he could not deny there was a small part that he had thought he'd long since squashed out that was flattered by it. "I solve crimes.  When the police are lost - which is always - they consult me. In fact, that's why I am here...Ah, damn, I left my riding crop in the mortuary." He half turned towards the door, years of condescension kicking in before he remembers that John may be his new flatmate and he should at least attempt to treat him marginally better.

John wasn't so far gone that he considered "riding crop in the mortuary" to be normal, and it did stop him for a minute. Well that was... odd. To say the least. For a moment, John wondered if he was getting in too deep. Maybe the man was a psychopath. Well... At least that would be interesting, wouldn't it? John couldn't just let him walk out though, without knowing how to get into contact with him. "Sherlock!" He called after him, following just a bit. "What's the address?"

Sherlock whirled around, the coat flapping dramatically - he knew it did, that was half the reason he bought it. Vanity was another sin he saw no problem with. "221B Baker Street!" And with that he whirled back around and continued on his way, moving with the usual grace of one of his kind. It had ended up a good day after all, even if the case he was working on ended up being dreadfully easy.

John Watson was left staring at him as he left, because really, how could he not? No real person moved like that, was that dramatic, that... stunning. Literally. John found it difficult to move from that spot or stop staring after him, until finally he turned around and said to Mike, "He's... something, isn't he?"


	2. Chapter 2

In the mortuary, Sherlock passed right by his confidant, who stared at him with her too-big brown eyes and her too-small lips. He had left his riding crop there, yes, but Molly knew it was on purpose. "So." She said, a little shy and a little terrified and mostly completely besotted. "E, F, and G have already been autopsied, aren't going to be sent off to embalming until around dinnertime, so..." She informed him, hands coming up to play coyly with her frumpy side ponytail.

Sherlock barely glanced at her, simply glided over to pick up the charts with the corpses information on it. He was in dire need of a feeding after meeting John. "I'll take F." He gestured to one of the bodies. "And I will drain E a bit for later use. No sense in letting them go to waste." He turned and smiled at her, but it was more of a baring of the teeth - his fangs had finally been allowed to elongate. Sherlock knew of her crush on him, of course. It was silly, but endlessly useful. There were always men and women in various locations that he could easily woo for their services.

Molly's crush on him was based mostly on Sherlock's looks, and his nature, and definitely not his terrifying personality. As she watched him, saw his fangs, pearly white under the stale fluorescent hospital lights, her eyes grew a bit darker, and she cursed for the millionth time that he wasn't Edward Cullen. It would be so much easier if he just was. He might as well have been able to red her mind, though, and that was as close as she was ever going to get. Molly also knew that while Sherlock was dangerous, he wasn't particularly dangerous to her. He didn't like killing. That was part of why she helped him. So he wouldn't ever have to. She also did it because she had a huge, and as Sherlock often reminded her, completely unfounded vampire kink. She knew that if it were anyone but Sherlock... It might have gotten her killed. "Right. Try not to go too deep- it's tough to cover up the marks." She said.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and turned to face the corpse, his back to her. As if he did not know how to do this. He had been doing this long since before she was born. In fact, he needed to remind her of that fact sometime. But not now, he had more important things to do. He slid the scarf and coat from his body and gently sat them down. No need to ruin perfectly good clothes. His tongue darted out to wet his lips before he lowered his head and sank the fangs quietly in to the side of the man's neck. The room echoed with soft suckling sounds.

As she always did when he got down to 'business', Molly felt oddly voyeuristic- probably more because she was aroused by the state of affairs than because it was actually in any way sexual- and she turned her back on him, on the enticing sight of that dark, wonderfully messy head bent over the corpse. She swallowed and found something to busy herself with until Sherlock was done. As she thought he might be getting to the end of that one, she tried to end the awkward feeling in the room. "Who was that bloke that Mike brought up with him? He was quite fit." She said, conversationally.

Sherlock sucks at the corpse's throat once more before straightening up to his full height and licking his lips in a frankly obscene manner. He idly wipes a stray streak of blood off of his chin with a thumb. "Doctor John Watson. My new...flatmate." His head tips to the side, still finding the affair odd and curious.

She could hear something that was just slightly different from complete disinterest and self-confidence, and she turns her head around in surprise, just quickly enough to see Sherlock's demonic, sinful tongue. She blushed red and looked away. "Flatmate?" She asks. "Do you really think that's... wise? Considering you're, well... You?" She didn't want to offend him, but quite frankly even if he wasn't a vampire he'd be an utter menace to live with.  Even Molly, with her obscene crush, didn't ever think that she could ever someday be Mrs. Sherlock Holmes. And this man, this John Watson, did?

Sherlock smiled suddenly, a smile he was certain Molly had never seen on his face because it was actually a genuine one. "No. It is probably most unwise." He had to admit to himself that he was looking forward to tomorrow immensely. Something about John intrigued him. Interested him. And it was more than just the scent of his blood. Otherwise he would have turned and stalked out of the room the moment Mike brought him inside the lab.

Molly winced. "That's, um... Really creepy." She said, since it was. She couldn't remember ever seeing Sherlock smile, or even get excited about anything other than a case. That John Watson must be some fellow. "Um, well..." she gave an awkward laugh. "Let's hope we don't see him 'round here too soon, then." She said, thinking she was being funny when she was completely missing the point. John Watson was not simply meant to be devoured. Oh no, he was meant for much, much more.

Sherlock lost the smile, his eyes slicing to Molly's suddenly. For some reason he was offended. He couldn't place why. But the thought that he would cause John to end up here...it offended him. "I am not accepting him as a flatmate just to _eat_ him." He scoffed. "Why would I need that when I have so many other options? Options that are less likely to get me arrested. Not that anyone would ever find a body."

Molly winced. She hadn't meant to offend him. Honestly, she didn't have the slightest clue why ELSE he would take up a flatmate. She'd just assumed... Well, Sherlock was right. He had other options, and he didn't like to kill, and he wouldn't ever want to go through all the trouble of actually murdering them. The corpses sustained him and the crimes gave him the intensity of the hunt. So why, then, did Sherlock want John Watson? Very quietly, mousey, trying not to accidentally offend Sherlock again, she asked, "Well... why DO you want him to be your flat mate?" She asked, not comprehending why Sherlock was upset in the first place.

Sherlock blinked. "Because he is interesting," he says as if it should be obvious. Why else would he share living space with someone, unless they were interesting? He just knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that John would meet or exceed his expectations. His life had been dull lately. Case after case, but they were all so simple. He needed something more, something to occupy himself with, if only just for a little while. John seemed to offer that.

Molly pouted. "Well YOU are rather interesting too, but you wouldn't make a particularly good flatmate." She said, knowing it was true, between Sherlock's messiness and his crazy experiments and habits of staying up very late playing songs on the violin that he probable heard played original by their long dead composers. Not to mention the bloodthirsty monster bit, or the deducing your entire life history and leaving nothing private bit. "I wouldn't want to live with you if I were John." She said, stating fact.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, the smirk coming back - an odd picture, as the fangs had yet to retract. "He did not seem too put off when I deduced his past." He said almost smugly. His emotions have been very odd in regards to John Watson so far. Later, when he was home alone, he needed to sit down and examine them properly. This was very odd.

Molly's eyes softened. Sherlock was attached, already. The truth was, if John Watson really didn't mind him or his deductions, that he must be just as mad as Sherlock was. The other truth was that he'd seemed very normal, and Molly didn't think any normal person could really live with Sherlock. Just the few minutes with him twice a week while he fed was not particularly pleasant, and it left her with shivers and nightmares... as well as fantasies, admittedly. Still, she wanted to look out for Sherlock's feelings, even if she'd only just suspected he had them. "Maybe not now, Sherlock, but... Please, do try to not get your hopes up too much. I don't want to see you get crushed."

Sherlock frowns, confused. "That is not possible." He states in a clipped voice. Crushed? That would not happen. Sure, John was interesting and he smelled delicious and he was one of the first people in recent memory - he'd long since deleted the old ones - to ever find him "fascinating", but "crushed" implied emotional attachment. Sherlock was not attached. Truth be told, he did not know how to be attached. Preposterous. "Anyway, I will be draining the other corpse now." He said, slipping easily back in to the emotionless mask. From his great coat he withdrew two flasks of industrial steel. They worked the best since he could not touch silver flasks. From there he turned to the other corpse and slid in a suction tube. He proceeded to fill both flasks.

Molly watched him. This part was clinical, a job she even did for Sherlock sometimes, when he was in a bind. It wasn't so sensual as watching Sherlock feed. She sighed. "Maybe you're not attached enough for that yet, but if you keep practically blushing and giggling like a schoolgirl," He had, after all, been doing the Sherlock equivalent, "-Then you might accidentally GET attached." She looked down at her toed in her cute little flats. "It's probably best that you don't get too attached to anyone human." Even her. "I hear we don't keep for very long."

Sherlock stood again and began to pocket the flasks. He paused at her ending words. "Yes," He said quietly, "Your lives do go by rather quickly." He slid the coat and the scarf back on to his body and picked up his riding crop - that would need disinfected when he got home, he reminded himself. "I will not be getting attached, Molly. It is impossible." It was. Even if John was the most interesting human he’d come across in a long time, he would not be developing any feelings or an emotional attachment.

Molly prayed, for Sherlock's sake, that that was true.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, look, finally a bit of plot! Fancy that.

Sherlock stood in front of a floor length mirror, shirtless, slathering SPF 80 sunscreen all over his arms and face. His skin is so pale that the white substance almost completely blends in, color-wise. The lotion is annoying, coats his hands in a slick, sticky way, and makes him feel as if he were constantly wearing a mask. But it is necessary, and so he does not complain. Much. Without it, he would suffer nasty burns and an even nastier migraine. Once he finished with the daily, annoying ritual he began dressing - purple shirt today or blue? - to leave  for Baker Street to meet John at the new flat. Most of his things were already moved in, but he had still slept the night before in this one. Even if John turned the deal down, and Sherlock did not think he would, he would still be moving in by today.

John, not nearly as concerned about his wardrobe, showed up at the flat in a jumper. It was very warm and comfortable. He wanted to impress Sherlock, but he couldn't really add up to the way that Sherlock looked- or the way the hordes of women Sherlock couldn't possibly NOT attract looked. And really he didn't want to. He wanted to impress Sherlock with his mind, which, even shattered, was not too shabby, and any features that might make him a good housemate. So he looked very normal, hoping that was acceptable. He stood on the sidewalk outside 221B, and raised his hand to the knocker.

Sherlock strode up behind John silently, using a moment to look the other man over. He was just as normal as the last time Sherlock had seen him, but that horrendously ugly sweater looked…Oddly huggable. Sherlock paused his train of thought. That was certainly not like him. He shook his head slightly before continuing on. "John," he called, "Hello. Welcome."

John nearly jumped out of his skin. How could someone be so bloody SILENT! Surely he should have heard Sherlock coming up behind him, his footsteps on the pavement. John wasn't COMPLETELY unobservant. Shuddering a bit, he whipped around. "Where the hell did you COME from?!" He asked, blood rushing through his veins with a burst of adrenaline. "Christ, you could have given me a heart attack." He placed a hand on his chest, encouraging his heart to slow down. It wasn't as if the situation was completely harmless, since he knew nothing about the other man, and he was possibly a psychopath, but it really was just going to look at a new flat with a prospective flatmate. There was no reason to be jumpy.

 Sherlock raised a single eyebrow and quirked one side of his lips up in an attempt at a smile. "From the car." He gestures at a black taxi speeding away from the curb. "Did you not hear me? Hmm, perhaps I should wear a bell if we are to live together." Again, odd emotions, he did not usually attempt humor. He knew it did not fit his personality, but today he could not resist. Besides, the thought of him wearing a bell for the benefit of a jumpy human was so ridiculous it was hilarious. Though this man was a war vet. No telling what he might do if Sherlock were to startle him. Sherlock made a note to remember to move with a bit more noise from now on. Acting human was just so hard sometimes. "Shall we, then? I know the landlady; she's offered me a good deal. I ensured her husband was executed in Florida several years back." He strode quickly up the steps, inadvertently crowding John. The scent of his blood again hit him like a sack of bricks, even though he was well fed.

John gave a good natured, everyman laugh. "I can't imagine you in a bell. It would ruin your tall dark and mysterious air." Even imagining the intimidating man with a red ribbon tied around his neck, jingling as he moved, was enough to make him laugh aloud. He wasn't making fun of Sherlock, of course. It really was endearing, that he was the way he was. John, completely oblivious to his scent, turned to follow him up. He swallowed. "Executed? As in... Made an executive...or..?" Well, like he'd thought. Interesting. Undoubtedly. Inescapably. God, yes. He imagined the landlady to be a conniving woman, the kind that would ensure that her husband got the noose, because his life, with this man, was already so absurd that nothing would surprise him. Except that she was the stereotypical little old woman with just a bit too much makeup and a smiling face. "Sherlock, I would have thought you'd cleaned up in here a bit for your guest." She said, tutting disapprovingly.

They opened the door to the flat, and John could see why. Oh. It was like a disaster area. And was that a knife shoved in the mantlepiece? Besides the clutter of papers and other knicknacks, the place really was quite homey. Plenty of space for two people. Comfortable chairs. Big kitchen. "Well, this is excellent." John said, looking around with a mild smile on his face.

“Yes, it is, isn't it?" Sherlock says, glancing around the flat. It really is a great find. He could afford it himself, really, but Mrs. Hudson would wonder where all his money came from and he couldn't just say it was from centuries of hoarding it all, now, could he? When he had said to Mike he was looking for a flatmate, it had just been a bit of a ruse, another example of him playacting as human. Never would he have imagined that that little line would have gotten him a flatmate as interesting as John. The man had just swallowed and continued on when Sherlock mentioned Mr. Hudson and his execution. Fascinating. Sherlock deeply looked forward to continuing his observation on the other man. Perhaps it would help him with his acting.

It undoubtedly would. Besides returning from a war with a slightly broken body and a defective psyche, as well as his advanced degree in medicine, John really couldn't get any more average.  He also knew what was normal, and he knew that Sherlock was not it. Just by looking at him he was an anomaly, his height, his eyes, his mind... But that was fine. It was all fine. Sherlock's oddity was something strange but... Enchanting. John didn't consider himself any kind of damsel, but Sherlock was strangely dashing. John frowned. Did that mean that Sherlock would be bringing women back to their flat all the time? Perhaps that was something that was important to talk about. A flatmate agreement of sorts. John let Mrs. Hudson walk him through the rooms. He frowned. "Only one bedroom?" He asked. That was a deal breaker. Mrs. Hudson frowned at him. "You'll be needing two bedrooms?" She asked, curiously. "Well yes, there is one upstairs, but..."

Sherlock cleared his throat, "Yes, Mrs. Hudson, we will definitely be needing two bedrooms. We are not, ah, like Mrs. Turner's married once next door." Mrs. Hudson was one of his favorite humans in this century, but she could be so very naive sometimes. Come to think of it, Molly had had the same idea about them. Curiouser and curiouser, as the saying goes. Sherlock swept his arm out to indicate the whole of the flat. "Any questions, John?"

Mrs. Hudson eyed them suspiciously. "Well, alright." She said, not quite believing them. "It would be okay if you were like Mrs. Turners married ones, though." She said, now giving them a sly smile like it was some sort of inside joke. John raised an eyebrow at her. Awkward. Honestly, he and Sherlock had just MET. He didn't even know the man's favorite color and she'd already assumed that they were an item. He was grateful, though, that he'd have his own room. Sherlock's was a mess. He looked out over the flat and he replied with a smile and, "Just one. Where do I sign?"

Sherlock broke in to a wide grin, unable to stop it. Luckily the fangs were safely hidden from view, though there was no denying his canines were slightly sharper than the average persons. Mrs. Hudson was already holding out the tenant papers. Sherlock plucked them from her fingers and held them up to the wall, producing a pen from somewhere within his coat to sign his name hastily. He then handed it to John. "Right there."

John took the papers and signed his messy doctor's signature underneath Sherlock's, before handing them back to the small, adorable landlady. His eyes flicked back to Sherlock almost immediately.  What was most surprising was that his new flatmate seemed to be as excited about this as he was. What did the enigmatic Sherlock see in him that was so damn interesting? Well, perhaps he was just excited for the new flat. John didn't understand yet how important it was that he hadn't yet told Sherlock to piss off was, let alone the other, more sinister reasons why Sherlock might be interested in him, so John was quite frankly dumbfounded. "Glad we've got that sorted, then. I'll be moving in as soon as possible."

Sherlock glanced around the flat, trying to imagine what all John would be bringing with him and where all he would put it. It was sort of a game, for a mind like his. "So," He said in to the ensuing silence, "I must inform you that the top shelf of the fridge is reserved for experiments. Also, I was not joking about the violin." He watches John's reaction at the bit about experiments, wondering how he'll react to the severed foot that is in there right now.

John blinks and frowns at him, and then nods. "Er... Well, as long as it doesn't contaminate the milk." He said evenly, treading with caution. Also he didn't mind the violin. Thought it quite beautiful when played well.  But experiments? What kind of experiments did this man do? He took another glance around the flat, and didn't see anything more malicious looking than- well, than a human skull. He frowned. "Is that... Real?" He asked, a hint of nervousness in his voice. Actual human remains in his flat... Was that where he should draw the line?

Sherlock glanced at the skull. "Ah, yes, that. I call him Yorick. An old friend." It really was. "Well, I say friend..." He means William Shakespeare. Stealing body parts has always been easy, no matter the century. "I will endeavor to keep the milk safe. However, I do not eat much," at all, he means, "so the rest of the fridge will largely be yours.

John's opened his mouth, and then snapped it shut again. He had a real, human skull? John could see that it was male... But even then, rather small for a male. But an adult. "Did you-?" He wanted to know if Sherlock was responsible for the murder of whoever was the owner of that skull. It was highly unlikely, wasn't it? After all, Mrs. Hudson had waltzed right in and right past it without saying a word. But... How else would someone get the SKULL of an old friend!? He wouldn't put it past the man in front of him to be a crazy murderer of some kind.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "No, I did not murder the owner of the skull. If you were to murder someone, why would you keep their skull sitting around your living room? You'd be that much more likely to get caught." He had killed before, of course, but it was never his first choice. It was messy. Dull. Wasteful. John wouldn't know that of course, but the fact that he had started to ask clearly showed that he didn't entirely trust Sherlock not to be a crazy, axe-wielding psychopath. Smart of him, really.

Sherlock could see John almost deflate with relief. Thank goodness. At least, whatever the man was, he wasn't a murderer. John thought that if he wasn't, and he wasn't some kind of child rapist, he could deal with whatever other eccentricities Sherlock threw at him. "Oh. Good." HE wouldn't ask how Sherlock got it. Seemed like a story for another time, really. "So... What do you study? You said you did experiments, and you were obviously in the lab for a reason. Are you a doctor of some kind?" He'd met a lot of doctors that were a bit around the bend, after all.

Sherlock shook his head in a negative. "I've already told you I am a consulting detective. I was at the lab testing bruises on corpses with a riding crop to prove a man didn't kill his wife. The foot in the fridge is for another case, one with a bit of fungus and a man's sister-in-law. At times I do study things simply because I want to know them. But mainly, all of it is for the job." Sherlock looked away from John as Mrs. Hudson came bustling in carrying a tray of tea and biscuits. "Ah, thank you, Mrs. Hudson." He said. She waved a hand, "Of course, dear. But remember, I'm not you housekeeper!" She said before turning to John. "Lovely to meet you, Dr. Watson! But I must get back downstairs, I'm expecting a man about some herbal soothers."

The army doctor thanked their sweet little landlady for the tea, and watched her go, listening calmly to what Sherlock was saying. John looked at him for a long moment, and then without speaking, turned round and marched (limped, really) to the fridge. He stood in front of it for a moment, deliberating. He worked for the police. He solved crimes. Like some kind of bloody superhero. And he kept human remains in his flat. Their flat. Maybe he had signed too soon. Or maybe it was a big joke, and Sherlock was a class clown sort. Only one way to find out. He opened the fridge. There was a foot there, sufficiently covered in fungi. He closed it again, then whipped around. "People aren't like that in real life. People don't keep feet in their fridge in real life. You know that, right?" He wasn't running or screaming, or even really arguing for that matter. John was incredulous, certainly, and a bit unsteady, but he was taking it in stride, along with a long gulp of tea.

Sherlock tipped his head to the side, watching as John stalked to the fridge. Once again he finds himself stumped. He found himself wanting to crack open John Watson's brain and find out what made him tick. He quickly cut off that train of thought. "Then what are they like, in real life? Sounds dreadfully boring. Watch crap telly? Wouldn't you rather run around London after a criminal?" He asks, fishing a bit.

His instant, decent person reaction was to look horrified. He opened his mouth instantly to reply that no, of COURSE not, he wanted to live a boring safe crap telly kind of life, but he just couldn't. No words escaped him. He closed his mouth and looked down, and shuffle a little "I... Well, Yes." he said tentatively. Even if he was the sanest person in the room, it still didn't feel like this was okay to admit to. But Sherlock...He had a point. John looked up slowly, gaining defiance, and said, "I would." He glanced at his leg. "If I could, I mean." He cleared his throat, and then looked up at Sherlock. "Don't know where I'd find a criminal to run after, anyway. Not sure I have the right... contacts."

Sherlock broke in to another of those grins he couldn't seem to fight at his admittance, but it feel from his face and he narrowed his eyes at John's leg. He had a theory he needed to try out soon. He was certain he could help John with that problem. Then he had to pause for a moment. Since when did he go about helping people for any reason other than a case? He mentally shook himself. "Well. London is simply full of criminals."

John gave him an almost sly look. "Well I know that. See them on the crap telly all the time." He joked. Something in his green-blue eyes sparkles briefly. "I just need a way to get at them, it seems." Could this really be true? Was he being asked by his new flat mate to go crime fighting with him? While there was a skull on the mantle and a foot in the fridge and a startlingly good looking man wanting to share a flat with him? Had he entered a world, not of sight and sound, but of mind? It seemed almost too good to be true.

Sherlock cleared his throat slightly. "Well," he began, "I do have need of a medical assistant. Forensics never wants to work with me on scene. They're all horribly dense, anyway." He felt oddly vulnerable at the moment, offering to allow John to come with him on cases. He knew he could break the man's neck in the moment it took him to blink, but the feeling did not go away. "I said you were an army doctor. Are you any good?" He asks.

John's mouth quirked into a smile, his face, as always, completely transparent. " _Very_ good." he said, feeling a rush of anticipation spiking within him.  "And you're a consulting detective. Clearly very good as well." His smile spread out into an even larger grin, one that was almost goading, and it was obvious that he knew something Sherlock didn't know. Sherlock wasn't flawless, and John knew. And he was still pleasantly flummoxed by Sherlock. He slowly sat down, relaxing, expecting to be able to have a nice conversation after the one up he pulled on Sherlock.

Sherlock laughed suddenly, a short, quickly cut off noise. "Oh, yes. Very good. Very good, indeed." He attempts to sit down on the couch but jumps back up an instant later. He can't sit. He has to move. Sitting and relaxing is just so...so...boring. He doesn't understand how John can seem so content just sitting in that chair. Sherlock needs to be on the move, on the hunt, always, always, always.

John watches Sherlock jump around- it's endearing just then, though he understands that it might be annoying in the future. The look of his face is cheerful, but also mischievous. "Fantastic. Phenomenal, even.” He was properly admiring, and he was being honest. Sincere. Then his voice took an evil tilt. "But not perfect." He said slowly, letting the criticism slide by, even though it was, in all things, rather light as far as criticisms went. "You've already made a mistake."

Sherlock paused and swung around to face John. "Excuse me? What mistake?" He runs back through his two encounters with John, looking for any sort of mistake. No, there was none. He was certain. Wouldn't he have pointed it out before this? Perhaps John noticed some other mistake that Sherlock had made. But again, he discounted this. When would he have had time?

John had kept it a secret because he'd been waiting for a moment like this to tease Sherlock with it, and also because, besides the one, Sherlock had gotten every little detail right, and mistake or not, it was amazing. He hadn't wanted to put a damper on Sherlock then by pointing it out. "You talked about my brother. Harry has a drinking problem, yes, and things with Clara are still messy- Unfortunate, since Clara is a good friend of mine. But you were wrong. Harry... She isn't my brother." There was an amusement glittering in his eyes that was playful, and almost affectionate. He wasn't ridiculing Sherlock, not a bit. He was just joking around a little.

Sherlock froze completely for a moment before exhaling in a great breath. "Oh!" he moaned a bit. "There is always something." He sighed, shaking his head a bit. "Sister, sister, why didn't I see it? Yes...Obvious." He flops down on to the couch, legs stretched out, still making the motion somehow graceful. "Well. I got everything else right, correct? You were actually shot, yes?" He looks up, fingers steepled under his chin.

John chuckled. "Yes, everything else was entirely spot on. I don't know how you did it, but you were right about everything else." He proceeded to speak about the wound that had got him discharged as though it were a rather interesting freckle. "Oh yes. Left shoulder." He said, giving Sherlock a little background. It was fun to watch him sort of kind of... half outsmarted. "You really are something, you know."

Sherlock stares at him for a moment. Never in recent memory has anyone spoken about him in that tone of voice. As if his deductions are something amazing and not just something invading and annoying. "Really? That's not the normal reaction." He is not fishing for a compliment, he is simply very curious that John views him that way.

John tilted his head just the tiniest bit, confusion coming over his face. “Sod the normal reaction.” He said, very sure of himself. John supposed that it was somewhat strange- Well, no, it was outrageous, and fantastical, and practically a superpower, so what if it was a little bit invading and a little bit obnoxious? It was GENIUS. Genius deserved the credit it was due. Einstein was mad as a hatter, wasn’t he? So why did people object to Sherlock so much? “Just out of curiosity… What is the normal reaction?” He couldn’t imagine anyone not being amazed by Sherlock. Maybe it got old, but on first encounter it was simply stunning. Much like the rest of him. John could no more imagine himself getting bored with Sherlock’s deductions as he could imagine himself getting bored with Sherlock’s looks.

If John keeps surprising him with his words, there is no way Sherlock will be able to resist cracking open his skull to study what's inside. He found himself beginning to study John like he would a case, like a crime scene, and he knew he might put him off with the intensity, but he couldn't resist. None of John's reactions fit Sherlock's carefully made categories that have served him since he left his clan and decided to lurk among humans. "Usually it involves an awful lot of swearing and indignation. I've been punched quite a few times," He says, "But it is not my fault people don't _see_ when they look. It's all ridiculously obvious to me, so why shouldn't I speak of it?"

John looked positively shocked, swampy eyes growing wide. "Punched? Honestly?" That was, well... Quite frankly it was disgusting.  Sure, Sherlock wasn't exactly subtle. And it was definitely true that his deductions weren't polite. Hell, his deductions about John were quite personal, and it wasn't as though it wasn't disconcerting, but they were incredible. John couldn't imagine someone actually PUNCHING Sherlock over them. His face showed his distaste just as easily as it showed everyone else. "Maybe it would help to be a little more tactful, but... Surely violence is uncalled for?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow slowly. "You were in the army, John. You of all people should know that humanity considers violence to always be called for." His head tipped to the side, his eyes still staring unblinkingly, partly amused at John's reaction and partly curious as to what caused it. Was it because he was a Doctor, and the thought of any kind of violence bothered him? But, no, there was that "ex-soldier" bit to be remembered. Perhaps his morality was against it. Sherlock could always ask, but that took away the fun of it. "Besides, tact is useless. I performed a social experiment once; tact never got me what I needed.” No need to mention that he had done those particular experiment years before John was even born.

At this, John sobered. "Sometimes violence is necessary." He said. And it was true. Sometimes it was the only way to solve a problem. He believed this firmly. He'd risked his life for that idea over and over. He'd gotten shot for it. But that didn't mean that Violence was the answer to dealing with a mouthy genius. Surely Sherlock didn't deserve that, no matter what secrets he unearthed. "Violence... Violence is for bad men." He said, eyes flicking up to meet Sherlock's directly. Was Sherlock a bad man, deserving of violence to put him back in line? That question was surely clear on his face for Sherlock to see, an actual worry rather than just a niggling thought.  John wanted to search him, wanted to find out what he was all about. He didn't believe that Sherlock was. He knew what men like that were like, and Sherlock wasn't like them. But perhaps…That didn't mean anything? Like John was to Sherlock, Sherlock was unlike anyone John had ever met. It was difficult to know.

Sherlock was silent for a long moment, almost long enough to make it uncomfortable, before he gave a sharp nod. "I don't know about right and wrong or good and bad, but it is certainly pointless." Well, to him pointlessness _was_ bad. He could slaughter countless people in a night. What was the point? It was messy and a waste of time. He preferred eviscerating his enemies verbally. It was much more rewarding. But there was no denying there was a part of him that shied away from murder, against all his instincts. He didn't like it. There was no other way to explain it, and the thought of, say, reaching over and snapping John's neck actually made him feel faintly ill.

John raised an eyebrow. Pointless? Sherlock wasn't a murderer because it was pointless? John shivered when he realized that Sherlock hadn't answered the question he'd asked, but the question he'd MEANT to ask. "I... Suppose you're right. Waste of resources and all that." He said with a little frown, and then, because it was ridiculous to keep up the charade, he murmured to the carpet, "Glad that my new flatmate isn't a murderer, then."  But he still fought crime and had a foot in the fridge. John thought that maybe, just maybe, he might be getting to know Sherlock. A little. The tiniest bit.

"Do you really think Mrs. Hudson would allow a murdered to live under her roof? She'd hit them with a broom and shoo them out. That woman frightens me." Sherlock attempted to lighten the mood, but, being so inept, he wasn't sure if he succeeded. Sherlock let his eyes wander around his flat - ah, their flat, now. He really is absolute pants at this socializing thing.  Sherlock decided to kick his feet up and stretch out on the couch for lack of anything better to do, taking up staring at the ceiling instead of staring at the flat or John.

Sherlock missed the little smile and the twinkle in John's eyes as John imagined Mrs. Hudson chasing Sherlock with a feather duster. He didn't miss the slight, lighthearted chuckle. John watched him stretch out, and then promptly looked away. Wouldn't do to get excited. They were flatmates, after all. Did he have to be so damn LONG, though? It was a rather long couch and he hung over the edge of the couch. Guh, that body. He'd do well to ignore it.  "Rightly so, I would think. Luckily she owes you for making sure her husband didn't get off."

Sherlock absently kicks his feet, still staring at the ceiling like a robot. The scent of John's blood is starting to get to him despite feeding just before he left the old flat. "Ah, that was a rather simple one. Wasn't all she makes it out to be." He mutters, almost half to himself.  When he finds himself wondering what blood type John has he lurches back in to a sitting position, back ramrod straight and posture perfect. That way lies madness. He must not go down that mental road. Molly would never say it but if John ended up on her table, Sherlock would always ee the "I told you so" in her eyes.

John, now that he is sure that Sherlock is not a murderer, doesn't have any notion that he would be laying on a mortuary table any time soon. And that was comforting. Instead, John felt he was staring down a whole new, strange but fantastic world in which he was very interested, and excited to be a part of. "Ah. And what is it like exactly when it's not so simple?" John asked. "Just so I know what to expect." When he went hobbling off after this man who was probably quick as lightning on those long legs of his. John worried that he wouldn't be able to keep up, but oh, he wanted to, wished he could, with everything he had.

Sherlock turned his body to look at him, a sharp smile lifting his lips. But it wasn't a wholly happy smile. "Dangerous," He answered. He could tell from the moment he'd look that John was an adrenaline junkie. The thought of danger would not send John scurrying away, no matter how much it should. If only he knew how dangerous it was just to be sitting next to Sherlock. "Very dangerous." He says, tying what he says aloud to what he is thinking.

John's eyes went dark, dilating a little at the almost sexually gratifying idea of being in real, life threatening danger. John didn't recognise Sherlock as the source of the danger, as he should have. He did recognize that Sherlock would bring him to the danger, and that already appealed the man to him. "Good." He replied simply, seeming suddenly transfixed with Sherlock's slivery eyes. Sherlock SEEMED dangerous. He made John's skin creep, and not just in the vaguely aroused way a woman in a short skirt did. John should really be trusting his instincts, as they'd always been right in the past, but he wasn't. Sherlock would bring danger to his life, and GOD did he crave it. He needed it. He needed it or he'd make his own danger in the form of a Russian roulette, and the odds would fall farther and farther out of his favor until there was hot lead in his brain.

Sherlock blinked, the only outward sign of surprise at his noticing that John wasn't just interesting on the inside, he really was rather interesting on the outside. Sherlock took in the dilated pupils, the sudden tensing of his muscles at the thought of danger, and Sherlock admitted to himself that John Watson was a rather handsome individual. Who seemed to crave danger just as much as Sherlock did. He licked his lips absently. "Most people would run the other way at the thought of danger," He said, somehow feeling as if he were talking about two different things with that sentence. His fingers did a short little tap on his knee, needing some sort of movement.

For a moment there was doubt in John's eyes, worry that Sherlock was pointing it out as some kind of character flaw. "I'm sorry that I'm not most people." He said softly. Then his eyes fell to Sherlock's tongue on his lips. It wasn't sexual so much as it was predatory, and that really should have tipped him off but it didn't. Perhaps it was a defect. To want to be surrounded by danger, to see and smell human gore, to know that in a moment he could BE that gore, but that he wouldn't be. He wouldn't be because he was just that good. He wanted to prove himself and feel exhilarated and feel like he was on the edge. Adrenaline was rushing in him now, through his blood stream. Yes, please. This man, this inescapable, mysterious man would take him there, would make him that would let him be that and feel that. John almost felt in his debt, even though they hadn't even done anything yet. His heart sang at the idea that any minute Sherlock could get a call from Lestrade and they'd be off.

Sherlock noted the physical changes from the adrenaline rush while he cut off his breathing. The sudden rush of blood caused by it was too much for him to handle in the small, enclosed flat. If he was not careful the scent would overtake him and he'd come back to his senses with John pressed to a wall and his lips attached to his throat. Oh. That thought did not help his blood lust or his sudden attraction to the other man. He mentally shook himself. "Most people are boring," He said. "Boring and useless in a dangerous situation. But you aren't, are you, John?" He asked, once more staring at John with eyes he knew were too intense. He couldn't seem to help it. John was more fun to watch than a crime scene and he had only known him for two days. He wondered when he'd grow tired of watching. If he'd grow tired.

And John nearly stumbled into those eyes as he looked back up. Sherlock's words were like rapture. He'd knocked him down and was building him right back up again, letting him know that he was good, that he was special. He, John Watson, was special to Sherlock Holmes, who at the point defied description beyond simply 'Amazing'. John's blood flew so freely that it became visible under his skin in the form of a blush, in his face and creeping down his neck. It was right there, below the surface, becoming Sherlock to come. All he'd have to do was prick him and that ruby fluid would spill out for Sherlock to take, and John would let him. John would struggle, for a moment, but then he'd stop, because no matter what, even if he died, it was a hell of a way to go.  John opened his mouth to tell Sherlock that no, he wasn't like that at all. He was a cut above and he was full of talent and skill and he could prove himself worthy of Sherlock's praise even if his praise was just that he wasn't boring. That was what he wanted to say, but as soon as he thought it, his mouth snapped closed as doubt flooded over him. No, he wasn't special, not that special at least. He might be highly trained, and yes, he was good in a jam, no matter how dangerous that jam was, he knew what actions to take at a moment's notice, but now... He closed his eyes and sat back, his own disappointment and self-loathing obvious, especially to Sherlock's impenetrable gaze. He more than likely was useless in a dangerous situation. He couldn't even really walk, could he? And he really was boring. Sherlock was wrong. Just like everyone else he had money troubles and just like everyone else he's gone a bit too long without a shag and like everyone else he was in odd sorts with his family and like everyone else he bumbled through his life, just trying to get by without offing himself in his bed after a particularly bad nightmare.  It had been a nice illusion while it lasted, that he could keep up with Sherlock, and be worthy of his praise.

Sherlock all but began to vibrate with the restraint it took not to throw himself forward and take what he wanted when he saw that blush. Good god, it was hard not to just hold John down and drain him dry. So very, very hard. He noticed John's suddenly dark mood, of course he did, how could he not? But he did not understand it. Sherlock could see that John was above average after such a short amount of time. How could he doubt it? Perhaps it was the wound. "No," He said, as if he were answering his own question and not like it was an attempt at cheering John up, "Not boring at all." He leant back on the couch, crossing his legs, still staring, eyes narrowed. Why would John doubt himself?

John shivered, actually shivered at Sherlock's warm voice trying to dash his own doubts. John closed his eyes tight at them. Sherlock was wrong, he knew. He wanted to scream at Sherlock, scream that if he was so smart why couldn't he SEE!? Why couldn't he just observe or deduce that John was not only mind numbingly normal but also obviously broken? John took a moment to compose himself, swallowed, and looked back up to Sherlock. Christ, what gave the man the gall to just lounge around like that, looking so perfect and composed when John was having a minor breakdown?  Sherlock didn't look like he even considered the idea that he could be wrong. John didn't know whether to call him an arrogant git or to derive strength from Sherlock's confidence in him. "What makes you say that?" John asked, voice not quite managing to be steady. "What makes you so bloody sure of it?" HE tried to keep the emotion out of his voice, but it was obvious he was failing fantastically.

Sherlock was genuinely confused. Why couldn't John see what he did? "You are a surgeon. You are obviously more intelligent than your average sheep. You are a competent soldier. The wound does not change that. I say danger, and here you are. That is not the action of an average or a boring person. “Sherlock briefly considered touching John's arm in support, but tossed that idea aside quickly. Most likely it would just make him even more aware of the blood rushing beneath skin. It was already hard enough to focus, even harder to keep acting as if everything were normal.

John frowned at him, blinking stupidly. Sherlock...It was hard for John to agree with him, but he did have a point. Was it possible that to Sherlock, the defect of being addicted to danger was nothing but a boon? Sherlock was right, it was not normal, it was considerably abnormal, but... Well, it suited Sherlock's purposes, didn't it? He was competent and he was more intelligent than the average man, but he was also plagued by PTSD and his limp and his shoulder and... "Surely I'm not the only adrenaline junkie with a PhD in London." He said. "I'm sure you'd find several if you held auditions. Ones without psychosomatic limps." Now his voice was very steady, if self-deprecating, but in his lap his left hand was trembling at the idea that someone other than him might be taking Sherlock up on his offer of adventure. While he sat at home with tea and telly.

Sherlock snorted. "Oh, certainly, people are just lining up to work with me." He stood suddenly. "Come along then, John. I will show you the danger you seem to crave but do not think you can have." He adjusted the coat, flicking the collar up to keep the sun off of it for when they exited the flat. "I've sent the cops off after a murderer, but with their intelligence it could be days before they find him. Would you like to help me, then?" He was going to prove to John that that little limp of his was easily cured. All he needed was a good rush. Sherlock would happily give that to him. He didn't understand why, but the knowledge that John thought himself boring or useless aggravated him to no end.

John swallowed, watching Sherlock with his eyes, considering. He could go. Sherlock was probably right. He was right about everything but sisters after all.  And if Sherlock was right? His life would be changed forever. His mouth was suddenly very dry, and it was his turn to moisten his lips with his tongue. Then he grasped his cane in one fist and hoisted himself up. He couldn't meet Sherlock's eyes for a long moment, and then he muttered, "Dear God, yes," voice breathy and needy and pleading please Sherlock, please save me from this, from all this. His eyes said as much when he finally dragged them up to meet the Consulting Detective's. It didn't matter if he'd only met the bloke yesterday. If Sherlock was amazing, and if Sherlock could do this for him...He was a miracle worker.

Sherlock's breath caught, paused in the motion of slipping his gloves on to his hands, at the breathy tone of John's, at the look in his eyes, at his words. His mouth was just as dry as John's. If this idea didn't work then he would do anything he could until he fixed John's leg. Anything, anything at all, just to see that expression on John's face. He would fix this man or he would go madder than he already was in the attempt of trying. He was quickly coming to realize that he wouldn't find any other like John. He could search and search and he would never find another man that would hear the words danger and jump up whispering, "God, yes" and he wouldn't find another man that seemed not just to appreciate his deductions, but to be awed by them. So maybe Molly was right after all. Fascinating. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> UST? What UST? I see no UST. *coughs shiftily*

John pulled on his own coat, shuffling a little, and then stood at his full height in front of Sherlock, his own self-doubt not influencing the determined flex of broad shoulders that said that John was ready for whoever came their way, even if it was life changing, mind boggling stuff. "Well, then, let's get on with it." He said, not quite meeting Sherlock's eyes once more. The man made him feel vulnerable. He wasn't intimidated by him at all, and any fear he had was only endearing. No, it was emotional vulnerability, something John wasn't used to having others make him feel. If Sherlock could fix this then he'd be completely manipulating John's feelings, manipulating his life. He'd be flicking the switch from a dim life that probably wasn't destined to go on much longer, to a worthy life filled with adventure and intrigue.

Sherlock rocked back on his heels, excited beyond belief, with a plan quickly forming in his mind. "If I am correct - and I nearly always am - he should be in a rundown flat. At this time of day he should be out, though, and we can catch him by surprise. Do you have a gun? Ah, yes, of course you do, but not on you. One moment.” He darted up the stairs, coming back down an instant later with his own personal gun. He hated them. Sherlock thrust it in to John's hand as if he were touching a snake. Well, no, snakes didn't bother him.

"Wait, how did you-" But Sherlock was already gone, and before he knew it he was back, thrusting a handgun into his grip. Much unlike Sherlock, John didn't treat it as though it were on fire. He looked it over, opened up the barrel to inspect the bullets, and ran his fingers over the cool metal of the thing like it was an old friend. Sherlock's gun was beautiful. Without taking the safety off, he took it in his hand, aiming carefully at empty air, letting himself feel it as an extension of his arm. It was powerful, and it was good, and having his finger over a trigger again felt RIGHT. This was a glorious homecoming, being behind Sherlock's barrel. After his moment he let his arm fall and tucked it discreetly into the back of his trousers. Then he looked up at Sherlock, a ridiculous smile coming over his face. "Well, I'm glad that's sorted." He said. "Should we go, then?"

Sherlock hated guns, but watching John stroke the cool metal and carefully go over it to make sure it was in working order, he found himself suddenly jealous of one. John's hands stroke it with precision and a very obvious glee. The gun was a very expensive model. He had needed a gun for a case a while ago so he went out and got one, but there was no need to buy something cheap when he had tons of cash. Sherlock's mouth opened before he could stop it, "Do you like it? The gun? You can keep it, if you do; I have no further need for it." In more ways than one. If John was going to come along with him, he'd be Sherlock's gunman. His own personal soldier. Sherlock liked the thought of that more than he should. Sherlock smiled back ever so slightly. "Yes, let’s go," He strode down the steps, the coat flaring out like in a drama movie. Centuries ago he'd begun moving in the most theatrical of ways and he never saw a reason to stop, it was so entertaining. Plus the looks on the human's faces was entertaining when they began to wonder if he was real or if the beautiful pale man who moved like a dancer with the billowing clothes was a figment of their imagination.

John blinked at him in disbelief at his words as he left with dramatic flair. What? He had to stop Sherlock and talk about this, so he cut him off on the stairs. "You're GIVING ME your gun? Don't you think you'll need it?" He asked, sounding incredulous. "Not to mention, it's..." Well, it was fucking beautiful was what it was. "It's expensive!! And well taken care of. Surely you don't want to just toss it away to your flatmate." Sherlock was mad for giving him a...A gift...So early on. And such a nice one. John hadn't done a thing to deserve it, after all. So where was all of this coming from?

Sherlock turned around in surprise, not expecting John to make such a big deal out of it. "It's just a gun. I don't need it, nor do I want it. You like it and you will obviously have need of it. Why wouldn't I give it to you? It's logical." He tipped his head to the side, watching John's face in a way that was starting become a bit obsessive. It was just such an open and lovely face. Sherlock didn't think he'd get bored of watching John Watson. "Take it."

Something in John still rebelled against it tremendously, which really was ridiculous since the gun was REALLY nice, felt good tucked against the skin of his back. "But it's YOURS. You shouldn't just be giving away expensive gadgets to people you hardly know. It's expensive. How can you afford that but not a flat in London? And if you're really so strapped for money, why don’t you just sell it?" It makes so very little sense. All John knew was that Sherlock was trying to give him something he didn't deserve, hadn't earned. It was glorious, too glorious to be a gift, and Sherlock was barking mad for offering it.

"Oh, it's just a useless little thing. I didn't even buy it," He made up a lie on the spot. He was remarkably good at that after all these years. "It was payment for a case. They didn't have money, I didn't want anything, but they insisted on giving me something. It was their fathers or some such thing." He waved a careless hand. "And I can afford the flat. Having a flatmate is more interesting." He turned, thinking this the end of the brief conversation. John was just going to have to get used to random gifts, then, because Sherlock had accumulated a lot of useless junk that a normal person might find useful.

John looked at him for a moment and just sighed. "You're off your rocker, you know." He said, giving in.  He allowed Sherlock to go past him, and he followed him out of the flat and into a typical black cab. He levered himself into the little thing, and let it speed off with the two of them inside. "Thank you for it, then." He said softly, finally. "It really is spectacular. Far too good for a flatmate you've had all of thirty minutes. If I even have occasion to use it, I imagine it will be... Well, quite wonderful.”

Sherlock chuckled under his breath, "You are not the first nor will you be the last to say that." He crossed his legs, leaning back against the car's seat. "And you are welcome. Think nothing of it, really. It was nothing to me." He drummed his fingers against his knee, staring out the window. He was thinking of their prey. The man would be in the house, he'd lied to John, but he needed to get to him before John and manipulate things so that Sherlock seemed to be in severe trouble by the time John arrived.

Sherlock didn't get it. It wasn't about the emotional value of the item; it was simply the value. Not to mention it was thoughtful, something useful, something that John could use and might even... Need? IF he was to be with Sherlock, WOULD he need a gun? Jesus, he could only hope. And that...was a bit not good. "I won't think nothing of it. It's very nice, and I am very thankful for it.  There's nothing you can do about it." He said, almost as if rubbing it into Sherlock's face.  It wasn't like it would be difficult for Sherlock to get there before him once the cab stopped. John was, after all, rather slow.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Yes, alright, fine. It is a princely gift and you should cherish it always and forever." Sarcasm dripped from his tongue as he turned his head to quirk his lips in John's direction. They were nearing the destination. His nails scratched against the expensive fabric of his trousers as the thrill of the hunt began to set in. He loved this part. It was always funny how the criminal thought they could get away from him. Sherlock had been hunting since before their mothers were born.

John snorted at him and rolled his eyes, redirecting his attention out the window. The thing was... It was possible that he would. Cherish the gun, that was. Where exactly were they going, and what was going to happen? John didn't feel safe, that would be quite against the point.  He did, however, feel confident, even with his limp. He could handle himself in a combat situation, and he suspected so could Sherlock. Plus, he has Sherlock's...HIS gun with him in case of an emergency. Despite feeling prickles of fear, John also didn't think they would be murdered tonight.

Sherlock's lips pulled in to a completely vicious smile as the car pulled to a stop. "Right! I'll check upstairs, you search down. Off we go!" And he launched himself out of the taxi before John even had time to blink, throwing himself up stairs with a carefully measured speed - fast enough to startle but not so fast that it seemed supernatural. As soon as he entered the building he could smell the human, hear him shifting on the floor above him. He darted up, silent as a wraith, and stood poised outside the door, waiting for John to be in proper place for Sherlock to begin his plan.

John nodded. Best to do a search first, to secure the house. Allowing him the bottom floor was a small bit of kindness. John hobbled into the house after him, knowing and not caring that he was breaking and entering. Then he quietly began to explore the bottom floor, looking for anyone, civilian or criminal, keeping his hand free to whip out Sherlock's pistol at any moment. John wouldn’t stop thinking of it as Sherlock's pistol, even if it was his now. Luckily, just as Sherlock said it would be, the bottom floor was deserted.

Sherlock nodded once as he heard John move about downstairs, then slipped in quietly to the room. "Hello," He said in a low voice, "I believe this is the cliché bit where I tell you that you are under arrest." The next moment happened fast, but certainly not fast enough to stump his senses. Had he wanted, he could have easily dodged or block the sudden wild punch aimed at his jaw. As it was, the awkward strike fit his needs. He allowed the man to hit him, even leaning back a bit so as to not injure his fist too badly, and staggered backwards, giving the man enough time to flick out a switchblade and come at him. Sherlock licked his lips, fighting a smile. Wouldn't do to let the man know he was using him. "John!" He called out, voice high and startled. The man froze for half a second - if he had been serious, Sherlock would have used that half a second to rip out his throat - before lunging forward and grabbing Sherlock by the front of his coat, pressing the blade at Sherlock's own jugular. "John! Help!” He shouted again, voice now laced with very fake fear and a hint of stoic pain. The criminal twisted them around so that his back was to the opposite wall and they were both facing the door.

John heard him yell and his mind raced. His blood pumped with adrenaline and his body was three steps ahead of his mind. Without thinking he was taking off, bounding up the stairs two at a time, and completely forgetting about his limp. He wasn't being quiet at all, not in the least bit, and the murderer knew that he was coming, of course. John pulled the gun from his waistband, flicking off the safety and getting ready to aim the moment he'd kicked open the door. He kept the gun aimed low to the ground- It wouldn't due to kill anyone just yet, until it was certain it was necessary, but right now there was only one priority: Save Sherlock.

It was hard, very, very hard not to grin in sheer triumph as he heard the steady feet on the stairs, and it was even harder not to shout with victory as John burst through the door with one foot. He was right. Oh, but he loved it when he was right. The look on John's face was rather interesting as well. All cold determination and solid strength. He would shoot this man, right now, and think nothing of it. Sherlock was right, in more ways than one. John Watson was a remarkable man. But Sherlock had a part to play, he must remember that. "J-John. I didn't see him, he took me by surprise-" The criminal pressed the blade harder in to the hollow of Sherlock's throat and cut off his words. "Back away and lemme outta here, or pretty boy gets his throat slit." The man growled hot breath on Sherlock's neck. He resisted the need to shudder in disgust. He wanted to break this man's hands and go congratulate John on curing his little limping problem. But he couldn't. Not yet.

John assessed the situation. The first thing he had to do was get the man away from Sherlock. If he shot the man he might just flick his wrist and land his blade right in Sherlock's jugular. John hesitated for a moment, and then slowly raised his hands, gun pointing now at the ceiling. "Alright. Just go. Nobody needs to get hurt." He let his very real fear creep into his voice despite the fact that he could have kept it out. He knew that he looked like a bleeding heart in his jumper. The man might actually believe that John would just let him, a killer, and someone who had threatened Sherlock, out on the loose again. John could feel the blood rushing and pumping through him at crazy speeds. He loved it. He craved it. This was all just so damn... Perfect.

Sherlock licked his lips again, for another reason entirely. He could quite literally hear John's blood rushing through his veins at the situation. God, but it was a lovely sound. He wanted to just sink his teeth in to a wrist and suck. Just a little bit. He wouldn't drain him dry. Sherlock snapped back to reality as the man dragged him to the door, intending to pass John and use Sherlock as a hostage. Sherlock caught John's eye, attempting to convey what he was about to do a moment before he did it. Then, with little warning, he slammed his heel on to the other man's foot and shoved himself away. The blade passed nowhere near Sherlock, but the other man was pin wheeling his arms about from his sudden inability to stand on one of his feet. Sherlock's shoes were rather pointy at the heel, and he did have rather a lot of strength.

As the man fell he compulsively swung at John, wanting to damage him in any way he could, and he succeeded. The edge of the knife caught John's arm before he flopped to the floor, the blade making a moderate incision in the skin there. John gave a strangled yelp and winced, but he knew that he was now at the advantage, and he wasn't going to give it up. He grit his teeth and made sure he had the barrel of the gorgeous dark gun pointed right at the man's head. "You aren't going anywhere.” He said, very, very serious. "Move and I'll shoot." John's eyes didn't flit to Sherlock, they didn't leave the murderer for a second. "Call the police." He said, hoping not to have to injure this man, though he was very willing to. Blood was already soaking through John's jumper, making quite the red spot on his upper arm. Right now, it didn't seem to matter at all. John was alive.

Sherlock's heart would have stopped right then if it had actually been beating. The sight mixed with the smell was almost too much. It had been a very long time since Sherlock was impressed with someone, but it was safe to say he was impressed by John right now. Not to mention most definitely aroused. The blood wasn't helping matters. He would have liked nothing better than to walk over and lick the redness off the silver steel. It took him a moment before he could stop staring at the seeping wound on John's arm. He slipped his hand in to a pocket, hitting the number on speed dial. The entire time John stared down the man on the floor, Sherlock stared down John. "Lestrade. I am in need of your services. And an ambulance as well." He rattled off the address to the rather startled man on the line and then promptly hung up. Talking was distracting him.

John scowled, eyes still not leaving their suspect. "Did you have to call an ambulance? Surely I'm not bleeding that badly, it's only a flesh wound. I was hoping to move my things in tonight and now we have to do the whole ambulance hospital thing. It's just stitches." Sherlock had wanted someone who could handle danger, who could handle a crisis. Those weren't the only things John could handle. He could handle pain as well, and he could handle self-administering basic medical care. That wasn't to say that the wound didn't hurt like mad, it did, but there were more important and more exhilarating issues to worry about at the moment. The way it should have been. With his eyes and his gun trained perfectly on the murderer, John didn't see just how affected by him Sherlock was. He had no idea how impressed with him Sherlock was, or how turned on, or how hungry. "For that matter, how did you get yourself into this mess? I thought you said they'd be out. It doesn't seem like you to be wrong, or to be caught in a trap."

"Accidents happen," Sherlock murmured. "I cannot predict _everything_. And if you do not want to go to a hospital you can just get the necessary items from the ambulance and you can stitch it yourself." Sherlock really needed to stop breathing right now before he did something stupid. With a last burning intake, he cut off his air flow. Sherlock did not feel pain like a human, but he knew that that wound on John's arm must be hurting an awful lot, and yet he just stood there keeping the gun trained on the man on the floor. It was rather...endearing, in an odd way. Sherlock wondered what it would take to crack John's stony determination. And that was another mental road he had no business going down. Bad, Sherlock, bad, he mentally scolded himself.

John shook his head. "They won't let me do that. There are regulations, you know. Maybe we can just skip away from this crime scene before any of the paramedics get to me. I've got what I need at my flat, I can do it myself." He paused, deflating just a little bit, relaxing because now they were making plans, weren't they? "You're welcome to come with me. We can order take away. Might need it, I imagine I might feel a little woozy by the time we get there. Orange chicken will do nicely, I think..." His eyes flicked to Sherlock for a split second, not long enough for the perp to get one up on him. "What about you? You alright? Need any medical attention?" Sherlock seemed a little bit...off guard.

Sherlock smirked, a cocky little expression. "Well, I could easily convince any of them to bend regulations a bit, but if you would rather we go to your flat, then that is acceptable." He'd have to find a way to distract John from the fact that he wouldn't be eating any of the food. Ah, he'd figure something out. He always did. "I am fine. No need to worry. The idiot there barely even scratched my throat." He lifted a single finger and trailed it along the spot the knife had been. In reality, had his skin been of the human kind, the man probably would have cut him. Sherlock shrugged. "Nothing to worry about, as I said."

John would very much rather go to his flat, than the hospital, where he'd be fussed over and have to fill out paperwork and be asked questions and probably spend hours rolling his eyes. At home he could relax and rejoice, he could chat with Sherlock and enjoy orange chicken, he could rest his leg, he- Wait. Wait just a bloody second. John reasserted the gun at the murderer in a more pronounced manner so he didn't get any ideas, and then he whipped his head around to stare at Sherlock. Their conversations fitted through his head, and then he understood. "You bastard! You put yourself in danger like that to trick me into forgetting my limp?" At first he seemed furious, and he was, but the more he thought about it, the more absurd it was, and the more touching. "Christ, Sherlock, you are absolutely nutters!" He laughed, standing up a bit straighter because he could now, and turning his head back to the murderer, grinning like a crazy man. "I can't believe you did that!”

Sherlock stared for a moment, stumped that John had worked it out so quickly, and further surprised by the anger leaking away in to laughter. His body shuddered a bit before he threw back his head and let out a laugh - a real one, not just a little chuckle or a sham laugh he sometimes put on when he was acting. It was rich and deep and it was abnormal for him, very much so. What kind of man laughs at finding out his brand new flatmate threw himself in to danger just to help with a limp? This one, evidently. It seemed they were going to get along like a house on fire. The man on the floor was now staring at them like they were insane. Yes, well. It seemed they were. "Says the man who took my gun and came looking for a murderer." He said after the laughter calmed, an honest to god real smile on his lips.

John was grinning right back, though, to be fair, he had his eyes on the incapacitated man again. "I thought you were dying! And you very nearly did, you git! And it's MY gun, you said so yourself, it's a gift! I can do whatever I damn well please with MY gun, even point it at murderers! The point is, you're a raving lunatic, and I can't believe you did that. I also can't believe that it worked. God, what an arsehole!" He couldn't help the glee in his voice. "Well, go on, go get my cane. You're responsible for me dropping it so YOU can get it home. And anyway SOMEONE should let Lestrade know where their man is." He could hear the sirens in the distance.

Sherlock stood for a moment longer than necessary, watching John. "I believe it is safe to say at this juncture that we are both raving lunatics." He slid past John and the man, adding in a lowered voice, "I really must remember to thank Stamford." Sherlock stole down the stairs, picking up the cane on his way to the door. He swung it open just as Lestrade's hand reached for the knob. "Ah, good, finally. We've got him just upstairs." He turned back around without a comment, and so he missed Lestrade's completely shocked expression at the term "we".

John shivered at Sherlock's murmured words, and he wanted to let his eyes slide closed to enjoy them, and the implication of them, but he had to keep an eye on the criminal. Once Sherlock was gone, he informed him, "I really have to thank Stamford too." He said, with a ridiculous grin and the hint of a blush. He stepped around the upstairs, looking around the kitchen but keeping his gun trained on the man, and he found some zip ties in a cupboard. "Alright, better get you tied up before the police get here." He needed to restrain the man, after all, since he didn't want the police confiscating his new firearm. It was short work to get the man zip tied to a radiator. John's next order of business was to get some pressure on his arm. He lifted a dish towel from the man, pressing it over his sleeve. "Got me good." He said with a little chuckle, just as Lestrade came through the door. John smiled at him awkwardly. He had seen him in the papers. "Hello."

Sherlock eyed the man and the radiator and gave a sharp little nod of approval. "What's all this, then?" Lestrade asked, looking at John in open shock. "Who's this?" He asked. Sherlock flitted over to John's side, assessing the damage to his arm more closely but not obviously. "This is my colleague. Doctor John Watson, meet Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade." He made a vague gesture between the two of them. "Now, if you'll excuse us. We've caught you a murderer and we really should be heading home now. For dinner and such other boring things." Lestrade's eyes almost bugged out of their sockets. Home? Dinner? TOGETHER? Stop the presses, he thought, it seemed Sherlock Holmes had gone and found himself a significant other.

"Oh, stop that, Lestrade, he's my flatmate." Sherlock snapped.

"Oi! Don't do that mind reading trick of yours on me!" Lestrade said, indignant.

"Your thoughts are ridiculously opaque." Sherlock countered. "Now. We really must be off. Right, John?" Sherlock turned to look at him, head tipped to the side.

John grinned at the detective inspector, glad to meet him, even under such ridiculous circumstances. He tried to hide any kind of reaction when Lestrade thought that they were together, but that was the second time that day, did they really give off that vibe? Well, the more pressing question was how possible was it that maybe, in the future, they'd be more than just flatmates? It seemed to John that they'd already gone through what was necessary together to become friends, and when all things were said and done, John knew that he was probably already halfway to falling in love with the man. Who he'd met YESTERDAY. Yesterday, when he wasn't far from ending it all, yesterday, when he had a limp, yesterday when he had so little hope it was suffocating. And now? He had a new flat and a new flatmate. He tried to quiet the obnoxious fluttering in his chest. "Yes, must be off, good to meet you though! Also, we won't be needing the ambulance, so sorry about that." He was quite obviously holding onto a bleeding wound, which just made the situation even sillier.

Sherlock giggled a bit under his breath. This whole situation was ludicrous. It was also the most fun he'd had in years. Where had John Watson been hiding himself? Well, Afghanistan, obviously. If he'd know he would have packed up and took a little trip off to parts unknown. But the fact that this little man was going to stand there, gripping a seeping wound, and tell the Inspector that he didn't need an ambulance? It was too much. His giggles got slowly louder until Lestrade heard them. Lestrade's shock was now at astronomical levels. He'd never heard Sherlock laugh, let alone giggle like a little kid.

John used his free hand to give Sherlock a little punch. "Hey, what are you giggling at?" He said, though he had begun to giggle too. "This is a crime scene! And I've got a wound, you know, lost a lot of blood, hurts like hell. Just what is so damned funny?" But he already knew, knew how stupid and silly their situation was, and was just so... so fucking happy he couldn't even believe it. "Let's get a cab. I really should get this worked on, so we'll get it delivered. Sound good?" He asked, smiling like an idiot all the way out of the house and past a shocked Sergeant Donovan.

Sherlock followed him out, giggling all the while, and his giggles turned in to full out laughter when he heard Sally say in a loud, shocked voice, "What in the bloody hell was that? What just happened?" Sherlock sped up until he was walking level with John. "Are you certain your arm is alright? I was not actually planning on anyone becoming injured when I thought this up." He would have offered to check it out for him, but...well...That would have been just plain stupid. He was slightly worried, though. His hand came up to hover near John's elbow, just in case he should pass out or something.

John batted his hand away. "I'm fine, I promise. Unlike you I won't endanger myself for stupid reasons. I'll sew myself up, get some dinner, take some ibuprofen, and be fine." He glanced at it. "Will probably leave a hell of a scar, though." He wasn't so worried about that. Unlike with many of his other scars, this was one he would not mind having. He wouldn't mind being reminded of this day. "It will need probably three stitches, maybe four. Luckily it's on my right side, so can use my dominant hand to stitch it up, and it's not at a strange angle... Yes, I'll be fine." He didn't mind Sherlock's concern, truly. 

Sherlock shook his head, amused. Well. If he said he was fine, then he was fine. He directed John to the main road, waving a hand lazily to catch the attention of a cab. He slid in first, limiting the need for John to shift more than need be. "I'm certain I have needles and the proper thread at Baker Street. For...experiments, and such." Honestly, he had just about everything shoved somewhere in that flat. You never knew what would come in handy. Case in point, John's wound. "Also, several different kinds of pain meds. Just in case you would rather go straight- there." He was one second off from saying "home". Was that too soon? He wasn't sure. Social intricacies stumped him.

John thought it over, turning his head to look at Sherlock. He really should go home, get some rest, have dinner with Sherlock and let the man enjoy his last day of living alone... But perhaps that was unnecessary. "I think that would be...lovely. Do you know if Mrs. Hudson has a bed in the second bedroom already?" He asked, leaning back in the seat and letting his eyes close, enjoying the thump of his own pulse as he slowly, slowly calmed down. Goodness, what an evening! When he opened his eyes again, inspecting Sherlock's face, he said, voice now soft, and self-conscious, "Thank you, by the way." Sherlock had empowered him in a way he hadn't thought he'd ever be again.

Sherlock simply nodded, at a loss for what to say. You're welcome for tricking you in to almost shooting a man? He glanced out of the window, breaking eye contact. "It was my pleasure." They were nearing their street. Good thing, the flat would be terrible, but sitting in the cab with his bloody army so close was driving Sherlock half insane. Perhaps this flatmate idea had been a wrong stop on his part, but he could no sooner kick John out now than he could rip out his own fangs. He already felt like John was a part of him. Sherlock's head tipped back against the seat, throat bared in a way that would be downright promiscuous if John had been another of his kind. But he wasn't, so it clearly didn't mean the same thing, he scolded himself silently.

Regardless of his humanity, John found his eyes attached to the white expanse of Sherlock's neck, and he swallowed. Sherlock was just bloody fucking gorgeous. He didn't have to flaunt it about by stretching his neck out like that. Not to mention that no matter what species you were, baring your throat was a symbol of trust. Well. John trusted Sherlock too, even if that was completely stupid. John had been thanking Sherlock for curing him of his limp, and more importantly, he'd been thanking Sherlock for saving his life. Even if he said it was his pleasure, John doubted that Sherlock really knew the gravity of this. He put his hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "No, I... I mean it. This is important. Thank you." He hoped that Sherlock would get his meaning... And if he didn't, he would let it go, forget it, never to be spoken of again, because there was just something so very embarrassing about thanking someone for something so mind bogglingly important.

Sherlock jerked slightly at the touch. He was not used to people being NEAR him, let alone touching him. He let his head drop forward and swing to look at John. He stared in to his eyes for a long, quiet moment before he understood. "You are welcome," He said softly. He licked his lips. It seemed to be a habit he was acquiring around John. Must not think too deeply in to that. He glanced away awkwardly just as the cab pulled up outside. He slid out of the seat and held out a hand for John, planning to help him out. He got the man stabbed. It was the least he could do. His fingers twitchy slightly at the thought of touching the other man.

John let out a breath of relief as Sherlock took his gratitude a bit more seriously, and the sigh became a little smile that he treated Sherlock too. On his completely transparent face, it was easy to see how sincere it was. Normally, John wouldn't accept the help up. He'd use his cane to pry himself out of the cab and get going on his own. Now, not only did he trust Sherlock and was willing to take his offered help without feeling ashamed, he knew that once he was out of the cab he'd be capable of standing and walking on his own. He took Sherlock's hand, feeling the warmth of him even through his leather gloves, and he stepped out of the cab, and then he didn't immediately let go of Sherlock's offered hand when he was up. This friendship that was blooming between them... He was beginning to think that it would define them both in a way that they couldn't achieve if they were apart. It felt good to be connected to Sherlock, even if it was just a grasp of hands, even if there were gloves in between their flesh.

Sherlock's hand clenched just once around John's before he dropped it and turned to stalk up the steps. He could not say DANGEROUS enough to himself. Sherlock was already on a slippery slope and he could not afford to fall the rest of the way. He threw open the doors and was already in the kitchen searching for the needles and other medical supplies by the time John made it up the stairs. He hastily cleared a spot at the dining table/experiment table and went off in search of some linen that John could use for the blood.

John was very glad that this time he was behind Sherlock not because he was slow, but because Sherlock was supernaturally fast. He came up and inspected the medical supplies, then sat down and got to it. He pulled off his jumper as well as his T-shirt, both of which were now quite ruined, and he allowed them to slide to the floor. Using the antiseptic that he closely inspected before deciding was safe, he cleaned out the wound, hissing as he did so, and then got to opening up a new needle. That was how Sherlock found him, still bleeding slightly, elbow braced on the table as he began to sew himself up, wincing as he went, and grinding his teeth. His discarded clothes lay on the floor, reeking of coagulating blood.

The whimper escaped his throat before he could stop it. The sight and smell that greeted him was downright illegal. Sherlock wasn't sure if he should stare at the bloody clothes that called to him like a siren or the shirtless man sitting at his table. In the end the man won out and his eyes hastily tracked and memorized every bit of skin available to sight. Fuck the slope, he thought in a bit of a daze - bloodlust did that -, I've already begun to fall. His limbs twitched. He bit down hard on his lip. He could take care of both of his problems if he just walked over and licked John's arm. It'd be simple. John wouldn't even have the strength to resist.

John felt him coming up, and he paused for just a moment to look up at Sherlock. The man looked stricken, almost sick, and John could tell that all was not well. He glanced at his half-sewn up arm, and said, "Oh, uh... Are you squeamish? I didn't think that you would be but I guess...Well, Just let me finish up, I'll bandage it quick and then we'll be all better, alright?" He asked with a little smile, completely missing the point. "I promise not to get any blood on the table." John didn't have the foggiest that he was so close to being molested by a dangerous creature, and the look on his face, so open and trusting and filled with actual, real life affection for Sherlock, said as much. John also didn't realize that since he'd gone through his jumper and his shirt, the only thing he had to wear still in the flat was his winter coat, hung by the door.

Sherlock shook his head, attempting to mask his expressions. "I am not squeamish, no. I work with dead bodies for a living, John, of course I am not. Would- would you like some help?" Oh, that was stupid, again. What if he said yes? God damn it, he was not himself tonight. And the trust on John's face was causing an odd emotion to twist itself up in Sherlock's chest. John Watson was going to be the death of Sherlock Holmes. It was a simple fact. Hopefully Sherlock Holmes never ended up the death of John Watson. His eyes fell to the mess of clothing on the floor. "I'll just. Ah. I'll get you a shirt to borrow, yes?" He turned and fled to his bedroom, leaning against the wall inside and drawing in several slow, deep breaths. Fuck, he thought. Fuck.

John had opened his mouth to say yes, he'd need two hands to help wrap a tight tourniquet, and he'd be glad to accept some help from Sherlock, but the other man was already flitting away, on about shirts. He didn't think John needed to be warm, did he? Like he'd be going into shock, or something? Well, that was wrong; it was just obviously not the case. It was warm in Baker Street, and he'd be fine for a bit. Normally he'd be worried about being half naked, would have considered it indecent, but they were flatmates and he was sure Sherlock knew what a bare male torso looked like just as he did. So then what the fuck was it that was bothering Sherlock so much? He finished up his stitching, and then stood, following the path Sherlock had gone down, and knocking on Sherlock's door. "Are you alright in there?" he asked, legitimately worried.

Sherlock nearly jumped about a foot in the air. "Yes, of course, one moment!" His voice was perfectly normal, of course it was, he was Sherlock bloody Holmes. He darted to his closet, yanking out a silk purple shirt of his that he was quite fond of, and then stepped back to the door, flinging it open to hand to John. "Here you go. You can throw yours and your jumper in the wash. Best take care of it before the blood crusts too much. Probably already has, though." He rambled. Sherlock was better prepared for the sight and the smell now. Before it had just been too much of a shock to step in to. Sherlock had no idea why his reactions were so strong. It bothered him intensely, but he couldn't stop them. It was as if his soul just called out and received an answer in John's.

John reached out and grabbed Sherlock's wrist, holding it tightly, trying to get Sherlock to stop for five seconds. "Hey! Hey, calm down, would you? I don't know what's gotten into you, but I've only known you two days and I know that this is very out of character, very odd indeed. You need to relax." His swampy eyes were insistent, his tone uncompromising. "We'll sit you down, you can help me with my bandages, then we'll order some dinner and I'll make tea. Alright? So whatever is bothering you, just...Take it easy." John didn't realize that his thumb hand began rubbing soothing circles into Sherlock's wrist. He just knew that Sherlock was quite obviously freaking the fuck out, and he had no idea why. "As for my jumper, it's ruined already. Don’t worry about it, it wasn't a gift, or anything."

Fuck, fuck, fuck, Sherlock thought. His inability to control himself and his emotions was horribly embarrassing. And the fact that John could so obviously see that he was perturbed was telling. Sherlock kept a mask over his emotions so well that most people began to doubt if he actually felt anything at all. Well, he was certainly feeling them now. Panic at the thought of helping John with the bandages, confusion as to how John could see through him so well, an odd tingling in his chest at John's thumb stroking along his wrist. All to do with John. John, John, John. It was official. Two days in and Sherlock Holmes was already obsessed. "I am fine, really." He said, voice perfectly flat and level. "The thought of your poor clothing simply bothers me." He really should take his arm back. He didn't. "Also, I am not hungry. Feel free to order whatever you'd like for yourself." And now for the last bit...He needed an excuse to stay as far away from the cut and blood as possible. His brain was coming up with nothing. Damn hormones. They were useless.

"That's bollocks and you know it." John said. He KNEW that something was bothering Sherlock, something big. Big enough to make him lose his appetite, apparently, and big enough to make him flutter around like an idiot and then lie about it. It crossed John's mind then that whatever it was, it was probably very private, and John was intruding. After all, they'd known each other for two days, and no matter that Sherlock had saved his live or gotten rid of his limp or restored hope in existence, John really had no right to Sherlock's private affairs, and Sherlock had no reason to trust him with anything important.  John's hurt flickered across his face for a moment, quite illogically, before he bucked himself up again, giving Sherlock a warm smile. "You don't have to tell me what it is, but at least don't lie about it. Come on, let's get you calmed down." He said, hand readjusting around Sherlock's wrist and gently pulling him and the purple shirt back into the kitchen.

Sherlock blinked and followed along, noting the brief flicker of hurt that crossed John's face but unsure what to do with it. Not like he could just stop them in the hallway and say, Oh, John, by the way, I am a blood thirsty monster and your arm is slowly driving me mad! Haha! Also, you're rather shockingly fit and capable and I quite think I'd like to molest you. Yes, that would go over swimmingly. "Honestly, John, there is nothing the matter." He followed along tamely for the time being. It was only when they re-entered the living room and he got a whiff of the bloodied clothing did he begin to withdraw again, pulling his hand away from John. "You finish with your arm and I'll go pick up the take-away, yes? It's just down the road. Save the delivery fee."

John gave a little frown. "I was hoping you could give me a hand with my arm, actually. Nothing difficult or messy, just helping me tie the bandage tight enough. I can't do that with one hand, unfortunately. You don't mind, do you?" He sat back down and pressed a piece of cotton over the top of it, wanting to keep pressure on it, even as he winced at the pain of it. "As for dinner, if you're not eating, you don't have to go get it.  I wouldn't ask you to do that. Sod the delivery fees, it's not a problem." He picked up the roll of bandages and offered them to Sherlock.

Sherlock frowned a bit. This was going to be hell. He kneeled down next to the chair - John was really so very short - and plucked the bandages from his fingers. As quickly as possible while still being efficient, he wrapped them around the arm, making sure to move his chest slightly so as to not tip John off to the fact the he was once again not breathing. Sherlock rolled a bit more out, picked up a pair of scissors, snipped the end and tied it. "There you are." Sherlock jumped up, staring at the bit of blood that inevitably transferred itself on to his fingers. He honestly couldn't stop himself. He'd licked the pad of his thumb before he'd even thought about it, and then he froze. "Fuck" seemed to be his mantra of choice tonight.

John watched him do it, and his eyes went wide as he did so. "Christ, Sherlock, you could have used a bloody towel! That's not exactly sanitary, and you shouldn't be playing with a man's blood so freely like that." He huffed and took Sherlock's wrist again, looking at his hand and cleaning him off a bit more thoroughly. "You're damned lucky I'm sure I'm clean, Sherlock. I don't care how much of a creepy sod you are, I draw the line at letting you ingest other people's bodily fluids." He paused as he realized what he'd said, and flushed, face going bright red again at the idea of Sherlock swallowing a certain one of HIS bodily fluids. The blood sang warm in John's capillaries, close to the surface and easy to see. "Er, I mean... Well... Fuck, just be safe about it, alright?"

Oh, good god, again with the blushing and the rushing blood. Sherlock was lucky John did not happen to look up at him as he cleaned off his hands because the sight that would have greeted him would have most likely frightened John. The look of pure want in Sherlock's eyes was not human. It faded a bit by the time John looked up, but it was still slightly visible at the edges if one looked. He decided to have a little bit of fun with the doctor. Sherlock deserved it, after all of this torture sitting around a small flat with the smell of blood and a half naked man. "Well, it certainly wouldn't be my first time ingesting bodily fluids, but I have to say the iron taste is not the most disgusting flavor I have had in my mouth." He turned and all but strut out of the kitchen, taking the linen towel with him with plans to burn it as soon as possible. The clothing would follow soon.

John gaped at him, only becoming redder at Sherlock's words. John wasn't sure if Sherlock was flirting with him or just fucking with him. Despite the almost hungry look in Sherlock's eyes, John decided that it must have been the latter. Everything about that sentence was just so cryptic and confusing!  Sherlock WAS talking about cum, wasn't he? Then why was he talking about the TASTE of it? If he thought it was disgusting...Was that Sherlock's way of telling him that he wasn't interested? Or was he just...Sharing random information!? Shut up, Watson, he tried to tell his brain. Sherlock could have been referring to women, after all. Or, for all John knew, he could have been talking about drinking tears or mucus or earwax or god only knew what. Overall, the whole thing just left John fucking confused. He watched disbelievingly as Sherlock left the kitchen, and then sighed, shaking his head. He gingerly put the shirt on- It was too long in the sleeves, which he rolled up to the elbow, and too tight in the chest, the buttons pulling slightly- but he wasn't going to spend all night shirtless, was he? The color on him was fantastic, though John didn't know it. He kept mostly to neutral tones in his own wardrobe, which was a shame because more vibrant colors made everything about him pop, enhancing his tan and his otherwise pale coloring.  He picked up the phone and ordered some dinner, and then got to trying to scrub the blood out of his shirts. They were still wearable, after all, and once washed…Well, if they had a stain, he'd just wear them around the flat. It wasn't as if Sherlock would care.

Sherlock leaned against the doorframe after temporarily disposing of the towel and he watched John as he worked, all the while completely silent. Sherlock spoke suddenly, voice low, "I don't think the blood will come out of those, you know. Best to pitch them. As it is my fault, I'd even buy you new ones. Least I could do." He stepped up next to John. "You really shouldn't be moving your arm about this much, anyway. As a doctor, shouldn't you know when to rest?" Oh, my. Now that he got a good look, John was rather stunning in Sherlock's clothes. They didn't fit, of course, but the silk and the color looked lovely against John's skin. Sherlock would have to see about sneaking in some custom tailored clothing in to John's wardrobe. He didn't know why John felt the need to hide under large jumpers and sweaters when he was so fit underneath.

He wore them because they were warm and comfortable. Like the rest of John, his jumpers were economical, and made sense. John shook his head. "I didn't think that it would. I was planning on washing them and keeping them incase I ever needed clothes to wear for gardening or painting or who knows what else. Or if I ever just feel like a lie in. They're rather comfortable." He snorted and turned to look at Sherlock. "If I was worried about it, I'd be sitting down. In any rate, I will be in a second." He turned off the water and rung out the articles of clothing. "Anyway, how does tea sound? I'll make us some." Once he'd folded the damp clothes, he turned to look at Sherlock fully. He was standing close, and John wasn't the only one around who was rather fit. "Are you doing better? Even if you say it's nothing I know it's not, so just stop trying to hide it, alright? I can tell that you're bothered by something and I can tell that it's big, whatever it is... You might be light-years ahead of me, but there's no need to insult my intelligence by lying.

Sherlock opened his mouth, about to deny yet again that anything was wrong, but snapped it shut at John's last sentence. Sherlock hated it when others insulted his intelligence. John was right, he was nowhere near Sherlock, but for once he found himself not wanting to insult someone for that simple fact. Instead he just nodded his head slowly. "Yes. I am doing better." He decided to answer instead. He would give nothing of real weight away. A secret shared is no secret at all, after all. Sherlock left the kitchen in a contemplative mood and made a beeline for his couch, flopping down on it to relax. A flick of his fingers undid the first button of his shirt and a flick of his wrists had his sleeves rolled up. He idly kicked his feet where they sat on the armrest.

“I'm glad to hear that." The doctor said, voice warm and soft. John followed him into the living room a few minutes later, offering him a mug of tea, and then taking up residence in the armchair with the union jack throw pillow, making himself comfortable. For a long moment he just closed his eyes and breathed deep, trying to ignore the sting of his arm and enjoying the calm. "So." He said softly. "Are they always like that? Always... Dangerous, that way? For an evening where I got stabbed it was...Lovely. The best since I returned to London, actually." He shook his head and gave a little chuckle, sipping his tea. "Just marvelous."

Sherlock enjoyed the calm while it lasted. It was an annoying tendency with humans that they had to fill every silence with some form of inane chatter. He found he didn't really mind it with John. "Well, not always. I do not usually charge off to arrest murderous people on my own. That was just to prove a point. But, yes, over all. It can be particularly dangerous. Other times it is dreadfully boring, sitting around waiting on a case." Sherlock tipped his head down to rest his chin on his chest so he could stare at John. "Your idea of marvelous differs greatly with the average definition." He smirked in half hidden glee. ""Lovely" is not usually used in the same sentence as "I got stabbed".”

John's eyes followed him, watching him on the couch. He looked exhausted. Whatever it was that had been bothering him, it must have been very draining.  "We've already established that I'm not average, haven't we?" He said, dropping his eyes to his tea rather than let them roll over Sherlock's body the way he wanted to. He wanted to get a good damned LOOK at the man. "You do this often, though? Take these cases? As a career?" He sipped his tea, just enjoying, well, being alive. Being in a nice flat. Being with an inexplicable new friend.

Sherlock chuckled softly under his breath, eyes slipping closed as he tipped his head back again. "No, certainly not average," He muttered under his breath. Slightly louder he added, "Yes. This is what I do for a living. Much better than sitting in a cubicle somewhere, contemplating shooting yourself in the head just to end the dull shuffle of everyday life." Just the thought of it made him cringe. If he did not have movement, excitement, he did not know what he'd do. Probably become a pathological, blood thirsty, homicidal maniac.

John winced and there was a rather long silence before he replied, "Yes, I suppose..." He couldn't help but be hurt by that line of thought. Just yesterday he'd been in that position. Even his occasional shifts at the hospital weren't enough to keep his mind from his gun, the one stored neatly in his desk beneath his laptop.  He hated the thought, because he knew what he had to offer, he could help, help real people who really needed him. And now, he could help Sherlock too. But that didn't mean that the thought didn't cross his mind. John let the silence rest, awkward though it was, for several minutes until his food came. John got up and paid for it, then set himself up a plate. "It would probably be good for you to eat, Sherlock. I have extra lo-mein. You're welcome to it."

Sherlock bit his lower lip slightly, realizing a second too late what he said and how it would obviously affect John, but had no idea how to apologize it. Damn his socializing skills. "I am fine, thank you for the offer," He answered with a low voice, still worried about what he had said. He'd have to start thinking at least a bit about what he said now that he had a human flatmate with normal human emotions. He figured he would fail often, but it was at least worth it to try.

John knew that Sherlock didn't mean it the way that it had sounded, so he forgave him right away. It was good to know that life with Sherlock would be exciting. Hopefully it would be enough to keep lead out of his grey matter. John didn't push the subject of the food, but rather let it slide, and quietly enjoyed his chicken. The tangy sweetness of it helped the low throb in his head and the feeling of weakness he'd been experiencing since he got stabbed. Once he'd finished a bike, he swallowed and said "I'm...Actually looking forward to this. As nutters as you are. I think I'm excited to have a life again, and have someone around... Even if I have to put up with feet in the fridge."

Sherlock grinned, finally opening his eyes again so he could prop himself up and stare at John. "You are excited about joining me in my exploits of danger and crime scenes. I believe you can no longer call me a mutter. We are on the same level, you and I." And he liked that more than he should. "And the foot won't be there long, anyway, I'll probably swap it out with that pig fetus in several days." He dropped back down to the couch, steepling his long fingers together under his chin in his customary position.

"Oh no!" John said. "I won't make any claims about my own sanity, but you are DEFINITELY far madder than I am. You just said PIG FETUS, Sherlock. I'm pretty sure that NOBODY is as perfectly insane as you are, who isn't a psychopath. Hell, maybe you're a psychopath too!" Despite his teasing words, there was affection in his voice. Already, he had affection for Sherlock. He honestly cared about the man, which was pretty insane judging that he'd gotten John stabbed. But he'd also done so much more than that, and John was sure that even more was on the way.

Sherlock twitched slightly at the term. John obviously didn't mean it, but hearing it come from him when Sherlock would expect it from people like Anderson and Donovan hurt, just a bit. "I'm not a psychopath, John, I'm a high functioning sociopath. Shouldn't you know the difference, as a doctor?" He crossed his legs, aggravated, while he mentally tells  himself to stop acting like a child. "Besides, pig fetuses are perfectly normal for scientific research. If I were using a human fetus, then you could call me a nutter."

John didn't understand why Sherlock was upset, but he could see that he was a little bothered. "I do know the difference. I wasn't using psychopath as a medical term as much as a catch all word for 'completely and utterly around the bend.' I know you aren't clinically a psychopath." His voice was trying to be reassuring. "Anyway, fetuses of any kind are generally not acceptable for refrigerators. Keep it away from the milk." John said, his smile truly genuine. He didn't mind the fetus or the foot. Yet. He set his chicken aside and then gave a wide yawn. "Lord, I'm knackered."

 Sherlock nodded, softening a bit at John's placating. "Yes, it's been a rather, ah, intense day for you, hasn't it?" He swung himself around to place his feet on the floor, the soles squeaking a bit in the quiet flat. "If you keep the milk away from the fetuses, we'll be fine." He smiled slightly at the other man. "Rest, John. I know for a fact that Mrs. Hudson took care of the second bedroom while we were out. You'll find fresh sheets and such. The rest of the room may be dusty, though."

John stood and took care of his dishes. "You forget that I just got back from a tour of Afghanistan. Everything is dusty in the desert." He said with a little smile. "As long as my eyeballs aren't dusty, I'll be fine." He gave a stretch, the muscles of his back flexing before Sherlock as he stood up on his toes to achieve a disappointingly small maximum height. Then he paused, hands on the buttons of Sherlock's shirt. "I don't usually sleep with a shirt on- Do you want this back?" He asked, ready to take it off and give it back to Sherlock at a moment's notice.

Sherlock hummed softly under his breath, discreetly eyeing John as he stretched, watching as the already tight shirt stretched the poor buttons even more. "I have no pressing need for it, but if you have no need of it either, I can take it back. It begs the question, though, of how you will make your way back to your flat tomorrow? People may stop to stare if you go out without one." He smirked just a little bit.

 John shook his head. "I have my jacket, still." He said, nodding to it with his head while he began to undo the buttons of his shirt, tanned skin coming more and more into view. In a moment it was all off, and he offered the shirt back to Sherlock. "Thank you for letting me borrow it." He said with a smile. He wanted to thank Sherlock again for the day, but he thought that might be overkill. Surely, Sherlock got the point. "Well, I'll be off them. Sweet dreams, Sherlock." He said, and with a shirtless type of grin, turned around and went up the stars unaided.

Sherlock took the shirt back with the tip of his fingers and sat staring at the stairs for a long moment. Then, in a bit of a daze, he lifted his own shirt to inhale the foreign scent of one John Watson lingering there. It was an odd mix of blood and sweat and steel and cotton. Oh, Lord. It was going to be a long night for Sherlock. He tucked the shirt against his chest and settled back down against the couch to wait for the morning. It was stupid, to have the bloodied shirt so close to him, but it was also slightly comforting, in a completely twisted way. He could not explain it, but he was relaxed with the scent of John still there, even if the man himself was not. There would be no sleeping for him tonight.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Um. Here, there be smut. You've been warned.

John was more than pleased to find that the bed upstairs was even larger than his bed at his own flat, and he couldn't help but smile as he took his shoes and trousers off, climbing into the warm bed in his boxers. It felt welcoming, wrapping around him like a warm embrace. Finally, for the first time since he'd been shot, John thought he might have found a reason for being. He slept like a baby. In fact, he slept so well, that instead of nightmares, his dreams were controlled by his libido. The first vivid image was a long while neck, bared to him in the darkness of a cab. Now, instead of just looking, John moved until he was straddling the owner of the neck, a tall, dark, wiry man. He ran his mouth over that neck, teeth and tongue enjoying the feeling of the skin beneath him even as his hands ran over bare chest. Goodness knew why it was bare in the cab, but... Next, there was a voice. "Not boring at all." It murmured, low and flowing dark like chocolate, and John shivered, before he was scooching up and kissing the man passionately, tongues twining and god, Sherlock was hard, and he was also hard, so hard it hurt, and he wanted Sherlock to touch him back, touch him in turn and- And he was hard. "Fuck." He murmured to himself sleepily, and then as he moved, he hissed in pain. Had he really pulled his stitches loose with a wet dream? He'd never been so affected by such a benign dream before, but then, not everyone was dreaming of Sherlock. He turned on a light and took a look at his arm under the bandage. Bleeding, yes, definitely bleeding. He got up in his boxers, and went downstairs to use the bathroom near Sherlock's room. He’d need to clean it out, at the very least.

Sherlock cocked his head to the side at the sound of movement on the stairs leading in to the bathroom. He rose from the couch after neatly folding the shirt and setting it down. He padded his way silently to the bathroom, peeking an eye through the door that was just barely propped open. His mouth ran dry. John stood nude but for the pair of boxers, and Sherlock knew it was a sight he wouldn't be forgetting any time soon. John had a remarkable knack for choosing clothing that completely hid the fact that he was spectacularly fit. All that army training, surely. And the tan was lovely. But what most attracted Sherlock's attention was the split wound slowly seeping blood. He must have threw a stitch in his sleep. The blood and the lust combined to punch Sherlock in the gut and his fangs shot out without any say so from Sherlock's brain.

John took a clinical look at his cut, and saw that he'd have to redo the stitches. Damn! The needle was in the other room, too. John looked at his bleeding arm for a moment, deliberating. On the one hand, if he walked out there, he'd have to do so with a ridiculous erection that he didn't particularly want to treat Sherlock to the sight to. Besides that, his hands were shaking slightly because he just couldn't get white moonlight dancing over pores and tiny delicious imperfections out of his head. It was awkward to do this here, but...it was the middle of the night, and it was his own damned bathroom now, wasn't it? Anyway, it wasn't like Sherlock was even awake to care.  Making up his mind, John turned away from the sink and towards the loo, giving Sherlock quite the view of his erection as he pulled himself out of his boxers. He clearly made up for his lack of height in... _other_ measurements. His breath caught at the feeling of his fingers on himself already. Fuck, it was just a snogging session in the back of a cab, that was no reason to be five second from blowing your load... But he couldn't help it. It had been so vivid and...Fuck, the idea of actually snogging Sherlock made him gasp out loud. He expertly wrapped his hand around his cock with his left hand, and leaning on the wall of the loo, set to work, running his grasping hand over himself. Since he was so far gone already, he didn't even try to deny it. He imagined it was Sherlock's hand on him, bringing him closer and closer and fuck, SO close-!

Sherlock bit down on his lip hard enough to split the skin. Sweet merciful angels of fuck, but that was a ridiculously fine specimen and Sherlock would happily kill right now to be on his knees in front of it. He was half certain he could retract the fangs enough not to harm him. Sherlock inched forward in a daze, the door falling open with nary a sound. The fangs rested with their tips on his lower lip when his mouth opened to allow him to pant softly. The smell of the blood and the scent of _John_ that pervaded the room were coalescing in Sherlock's head to make everything fuzzy and distant and red. He half stepped forward, eyes slipping back and forth from John's working hand and the blood now running down the arm of the other.

Sherlock was damn quiet and John was distracted, but soon Sherlock was so close that he couldn't be missed. John's head whipped up and he let out a yelp, then a groan, shutting his eyes tight. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!! Sherlock was there, while he was _wanking_ to him.  John thought for a moment that he could suspend disbelief, that perhaps if he denied everything, Sherlock didn't need to know about him, could think it was some woman... But there were to problems with that. One was Sherlock's neck was milky white in this lighting too, and John wanted desperately to touch, to taste. Second, he was really fucking close to orgasm and Sherlock had just walked in. His body was reacting quite obviously. "Fuck, Sherlock, I-" His face was much redder than Sherlock had seen it before, calling out, beckoning. That was to say nothing of John's cock, which was also quite red and also beckoning.  John knew he was caught in quite the dilemma. He needed to be able to come, to clear his mind, so that he could talk this out rationally.

Sherlock's mouth opened wide as he took in John's dilated pupils and the red flush staining his skin. He panted, feeling himself grow hard in response, and his hand shot out without any urging by his brain. He batted John's own out of the way and his long fingers wrapped around the length and took up where John was forced to leave off. At the same time the other hand pressed hard against John's chest, forcing him back against the wall so that Sherlock could crowd him. With just one hand he pinned John's above his head, stretching him out for Sherlock's viewing pleasure. And oh, it was certainly a pleasure. He was gone by now, completely unaware of what he was doing. Molesting ones flatmate was one thing, but molesting him while his fangs were out for said flatmate to view was another thing entirely. "You were killing me all night." He whispered in to John's ear as he dragged his fangs slowly down the side of John's neck, licking at the skin occasionally. "So hard to resist." His fingers gave a deft little twist on John's cock. "Can't now. Your blood is rushing to the surface so prettily, it is practically begging me." His lips latched on above John's carotid artery, gently lapping at the skin there. His mouth trailed down, away from it, because even in his haze he didn't want to kill John by feeding there. Down lower he went, licking the spot before sinking his teeth in and lapping up the blood that flowed out. It only hurt for a moment before Sherlock's saliva kicked in and dulled the pain, replaced it with the feeling of pleasure.

When Sherlock stepped forward and grasped him, the first thing John wanted to do was wrap his arms around him, grasp at his clothes, at his hair, and kiss the shit out of him and be an active participant. Sod everything about it being wise not to shag your flatmate, and sod whatever it was that made this awkward, because Sherlock's FINGERS were around him and oh...But Sherlock took John's wrists and forced them up and it was not completely unwelcome, but very unexpected. John opened his eyes questioningly, and even in the haze of being so close to orgasm, he wasn't blind, and he could hear Sherlock's words and his hot breath and then he could FEEL the drag and scrap of Sherlock's fangs, a sharp little line pressed in to his sensitive skin, and- "Holy shit. You're fucking. You're... You're a-" But surely that couldn't be true, surely they weren't real, and- Well, if he hadn't been freaking out, he would have thought that this explained a lot. But he was freaking out. He was also seconds from cumming his brains out. John struggled but it was for nothing, and not simply because Sherlock was stronger than him, but because he knew he wasn't going anywhere. The fangs pierced him and the pain didn't matter, but soon there was a rush of pleasure from that spot and John's whole body jerked as he came, spilling himself into Sherlock's hand, twitching as his body convulsed and then relaxed, and Sherlock was the only thing hold him up. If John had been in his right might he might have wondered if he was going to live, but that didn't matter a bit, really. Sherlock was close, and Sherlock was forcing him, taking from him and somehow... John didn't mind. He broke a hand free from Sherlock's grip, and immediately tangled it in Sherlock's hair. "Fuck, FUCK." He panted, trying to regain some of his senses.

Sherlock hummed against John's skin, lazily licking the last bits of blood that trickled out. His saliva took care of the pain and the wound, healing it so that by the next morning you would not even be able to tell John had been bitten. After only a moment's hesitation he pulled free of John's grip and lifted his other hand up, examining the mess there. He caught John's eye, knowing there was probably a bit of blood on his chin and lips, and proceeded to lick each finger clean with cat-like darting motions of his tongue. He snatched a towel from the rack to finish cleaning the rest. His brain was slowly unfogging itself now that the bloodlust hate been sated - though nothing had helped the regular lust, which was worse now than it had been when he first stepped in to the room. "Fuck," he agreed quietly.

Without Sherlock there holding him up, John slid to the ground. He was feeling drained and woozy and it was keeping his limbs heavy and his brain muddled, but it was also a surprisingly good feeling. His eyes fluttered close for just a moment, before point up to transfix on Sherlock's mouth, on the pearly fangs, and on Sherlock's tongue as he licked John's cum off of his fingers. John shivered. Fuck, that was hot. This was all incredibly hot. But also fucked up. He said the first thing that came to mind. "Quite enough to be going on my arse." He murmured, thinking that 'I'm a bloodsucking monster' should be on the lease agreement. He watched Sherlock clean up, and let his head roll back against the wall. He wasn't dead. Sherlock hadn't killed him. He'd sucked out a fair bit of his blood, but John was still alive and well. That was proof that Sherlock, for now... Well, he was still on the 'Not immediately dangerous but still exhilarating to be around’ List because knew John knew that Sherlock had teeth to kill him more than just an outrageously quick mind. He reached up to where there should be two gaping holes in his neck, and found nothing but tender little dots. In a moment of clarity he said "You could lick my stab wound too you know. Seems like it would work quite a bit better than stitches."

Sherlock opened and closed his mouth several times, staring in undisguised shock at the man sitting on the bathroom floor. Lick the stab wound? Buggering hell, Sherlock was right, they were both off their bloody rockers. "John, I- I just bit you after molesting you and...And you are asking me to lick your stab wound?" He blinked and leant back against the sink. This was the point when people screamed and attempted to run away. It never worked, he always caught up with the, but still, there was a pattern to be upheld and John was wrecking it. This was beyond abnormal. John wasn't just remarkable, he was unique. Completely and utterly unique.

John waved a tired and dismissive hand at him. "Shut up, I'm trying to enjoy the afterglow." He said, and gave himself a long moment to get his wits together before he spoke more. The real lunacy had been not fighting out of Sherlock's grip before, when Sherlock might have been draining him dry. This was perfectly sane by comparison. "If it had just been the molesting I would have been happy, you know? We could have been dysfunctional flatmates who buggered each other's brains out or something." He snorted. "Anyway, there's no doubt in denying...Whatever that was. It obviously happened. Don't get me wrong, this is weird and I'm terrified of you and all, but you didn't kill me, so I assume I'm safe for now." It was true. He'd trusted Sherlock before all this, and he still trusted him now.

Sherlock slid down the sink cabinet and pulled his knees up so they were just barely brushing against John's. This was quite the turn up. He did not hear even a hint of insincerity in John's words. He trusted Sherlock not to kill him despite the fact that Sherlock just forced him against a wall and took what he wanted. And the line about buggering each other - what, if Sherlock hadn't bitten him he could have gotten away with wanking him off? In spite of the rather shitty situation, Sherlock found himself giggling softly, which then turned in to a chuckle, and before long his head was tipped back and he was laughing at the sheer absurdity of the moment.

Sherlock's laugh, for being so rare, was contagious. Soon John found himself giggling too, and then laughing along with Sherlock, though it was a tired, drained kind of thing. Sherlock could have gotten away with wanking him off, in fact. It would have been hot, very hot. John wouldn't have objected in the slightest. Even if he hadn't given Sherlock permission, hadn't asked for it, he wanted it so completely BADLY that he really couldn't bring himself to care. The biting thing though... It had been more exciting. The danger of it had sung low into his bones, and his heart was still racing, pumping his diminished  blood supply through him at an increased pace. "Stop that, you liked it too!" John said, calming himself down. He cleared his throat and said, "Really, with a brain like yours, and so invested in criminology, I suspect you know half a dozen ways to kill me at any moment, and they'd never find the body. Now I know that you have a way of doing it that's actually... Well, it's rather intimate, isn't it?"

Sherlock sobered at once, ignoring for the moment the completely accurate accusation that he enjoyed it. Because he did. Rather a lot, actually. He was even still half hard in his trousers. Feeding, in the proper situations, could lead to that all on its own. The wanking bit was no help at all, but not entirely at fault for his current predicament. "I couldn't kill you. I hate it. I haven't killed anyone in forty years. It's messy and a bother and only an immature vampire would kill on accident while feeding." He suddenly needed John to know this. He needed John to know that while Anderson and Donovan correctly called him a monster for his personality, he was not a monster because of his nature. He fed only enough to survive and most of the time it came from corpses, despite the simply revolting taste. John's was the first bit of healthy, rushing blood he'd had in ages, and it was fantastic. It was a rush. It was like being high.

John listened attentively while Sherlock spoke, eager for any information about the insane events that had just occurred that Sherlock was willing to share. John took it at face value that Sherlock had killed before, and instead chose to focus on the forty years bit. John was a killer as well, after all. "That's...A relief to hear. And not just for my sake."  John actually relaxed against the tiles, and let his feet stretch out a bit, tangling with Sherlock's.  He could tell that this was quite the issue for Sherlock. John didn't write him off as a monster right away, anyway. "You're looking quite fit for over forty." He said instead, followed by, "So that's what you are, then? Vampire?" He thought he would just be sure. Sherlock could have been an incubus for all he knew.

Sherlock's lips quirked up at John's words. It was nice to be appreciated, he thought with a mental chuckle. It was also nice not to be seen as a monster. Even Molly with her ridiculous vampire kink saw him as one. "I am a couple centuries past forty, John." Sherlock wiggled his foot back and forth slightly, jostling John as well. "Yes. Vampire. That is what your people have called mine. Ah, and don't worry, I should have mentioned, you won't...turn...or anything from- from that." He waved a hand in a vague gesture to imply what had happened.

"That's quite an age gap. I thought it was bad when I slept with one of my professors at St. Barts," He said, trying not to feel weirded out by that, and more importantly, trying not to feel weirded out by being weirded out by that when he wasn't weirded out by Sherlock sucking his blood clean out of him. Then Sherlock mentioned getting turned. Oh. John should have thought of that. In an instant he was outrageously glad that he WASN'T going to turn. He didn't want to be what Sherlock was, he was sure of it. "Thank heaven for small miracles." He murmured, and then looked back up at Sherlock, taking a good long look at him, at the long, imposing form, the silvery eyes, and the skin that was looking- Well, quite a bit less pale than it had just a few minutes earlier. For a vampire, and one of several centuries, Sherlock was beautiful. Ethereal and creepy, yes, but beautiful.

Sherlock glanced down at his knees instead of watching John's relief play across his face. It wouldn't have been a horrible existence for John if Sherlock had turned him. Lonely, yes, but not horrible. Not that Sherlock would ever do that. He would never condemn anyone to this who did not want it. But for a moment, just a small moment, Sherlock imagined what it would be like if he had. Eventually John would age, wither and die, but if he'd been turned right now, he'd never have to say goodbye because of illness or accident or age. Sherlock glanced up in time to catch John looking at him. His head tipped to the side as he easily read John's thought process. "We do not all look like this, you know." Another vague hand gesture. "I know I look the stereotypical image, but that is just me. You should see my brother; weight problem and all." Oh. He hadn't meant to ever mention Mycroft. Ever. He needed to learn to be more careful around John. It was far too easy to just ramble off all sorts of information he shouldn't.

John snorted. "So you're just one of the pretty ones, then?" He asked. Well, he wasn't denying it. Sherlock fit the stereotype marvelously, and for a moment, John felt almost gleeful to know that. Then John latched onto the other bit of information there. "You have a brother? A vampire brother? With a weight problem?" He frowned. "Do you even eat? Besides the obvious, I mean." Sherlock had turned down food the previous night, inexplicable. Did Vampires eat at all? Or was there another reason that Sherlock's brother had a weight problem?

Sherlock cringed. He'd hoped John would let the mention of his brother go. "Yes, he is like me. And he has a rather hilarious weight problem." He smirked, which was probably rather alarming to John because Sherlock hadn't yet bothered to hide the fangs. "I bribed one of his employees in to telling me about his torrid affair with cake. It was worth every penny." He chuckled softly under his breath. "In general, we eat like normal humans. I, however, do not. Eating is boring. I can live without it, so why should I?" He questioned aloud, directed more to the room than John.

John laughed. "Eating is boring? So taste holds no appeal to you? You don't ever crave something silly and just want to taste it?" John wasn't sure why that seemed more unbelievable than the vampire thing. "If I was alive for hundreds of years I'd use it to sample cuisine." That thought settled in a bit. "You're centuries old. You probably have loads of cash, and you've got eternal good looks and bloody super strength.... And you've decided that the best way to spend your life is on a flatshare with _me_!?"

Sherlock stared at John for a long moment, stumped by the rush of compliments. "Do you know you do that out loud?" He asked. "Why would I not spend time on a flatshare with _you_? You are interesting, and capable, and very handy in a fight. Do you know how rare it is to find one, let alone all of those features in a single person? You are rather remarkable, John Watson." He looked right in to John's eyes as he spoke, wanting him to know he truly believed what he was saying. "Besides, sod the money, I don't use it for anything anyway." Well, except for his extensive wardrobe. Gluttony, another sin. He really didn't have a problem with any of them.

John blushed again. "Sorry." He said, because he was. He didn't mean to, certainly, but Sherlock WAS spectacular. John shivered himself at Sherlock's words. Rather remarkable. He said it in the same way he said 'Not Boring'. His dream brought back images in his head and he had to close his eyes and take a mental rest. So Sherlock thought he was remarkable and not boring and...And he could choose probably anyone in the entire would to live and work with and he'd chosen John. He shivered. "So? Are you going to heal my arm or what?"

Sherlock's eyes slid down to John's arm. "This is most likely a bad idea. I feel you should know that in advanced." He rose up on his knees before kneeling closer to John, lifting the arm up. With an effort of will, the fangs shorted themselves so he would not cause further damage instead of healing. His eyes slid closed as he lifted John's arm up a bit more and his tongue flicked out to sweep over the wound. This was really not helping the arousal that hadn't faded despite their talking. Every time he closed his eyes he saw an image of John wanking. Damn it all the hell, he thought. With one last swipe of his tongue he leaned back in to his previous position, licking his lips slowly to savor the taste as if it were a fine chocolate.

"Moving in with you in the first place was a bad idea. Following you after a killer was a bad idea. Not shoving you away when you were draining my blood out of my fucking neck was a bad idea. I'm not worried." John replied, and his free hand rose to tangle in Sherlock dark curls while he worked, simply because John loved them. He let his hand fall again when Sherlock sat back. "Well?" He asked. Since the wound had closed up much more fully already, it was obvious he was not referring to the healing of the wound. He wanted to know if Sherlock had liked it, or if he planned to do anything rash because of it. He wanted to know if it was as bad an idea as Sherlock seemed to think it was.

Sherlock shook his head. "You are lucky I have had years to perfect restraint. You've quite the flavor. You could have been dead ten times over, John, if I were anyone else. Children born to this take a very long time to cultivate it, and those turned take even longer." He looked up, eyes once again intense, as if he were looking in to John's soul, as if he wanted to crawl inside of him just to take a look around, as he wanted to consume/him. "And, of course, there are some who would drain you just for the hell of it."

John shivered. "Well I wasn't talking about having a vampire lick my open wound. I was talking about YOU licking my open wound. I'm not some idiot who just goes around trusting things with fangs, you know. You're not anyone else, and I'm not dead, am I?" He shook his head. "My judgment is perfectly sound. And look at it this way- It's not bleeding anymore so you don't have to smell it." His eyes met Sherlock’s, and he felt like he could get tangled in Sherlock's web so very, very easily. "You said... That I'd been killing you all night." He said, not breaking eye-contact.

Sherlock cleared his throat, trying to ignore any further images of him licking anything else of John's, wounds not the least. "Yes. You'd asked why I was, ah, freaking out. That was why. The moment you got stabbed I knew I was in for a hell of a night. And then you didn't want to throw away the clothing!" He laughed slightly. "You do not know hard it was not to...well...To essentially do what I ended up doing anyway."

John nodded. "If all’s fair, I'm glad you didn't. And I...Think I might have preferred it if you hadn't bitten me just now, even if I had to heal through stitches, but..." He shrugged. "What's done is done, and I'd be lying if I said I didn't enjoy it." He searched Sherlock's face. It was difficult to glean any kind of real emotion from him, but it was worth trying. John wanted to know what he was thinking, and what he was feeling. "I suppose I don't know. Thank you for trying, anyway, I suppose." He said, not having any idea what it was polite to do in a situation like this.  "And, erm... Sorry for being so... Maddening? If I'd known it was going to bother you so much I'd have just gone to hospital."

"I am very sorry for it, John." He said, placing his hand to John's knee for only a moment, just long enough for John to register the weight. "Sometimes, despite all of my attempts to rein it in, I cannot help myself. The blushing and…ah...It took away the last of my self-control that had been slowly whittling away all night." He glanced away. "John, if you would like, I would understand if you would like to cancel this flatshare before it really begins. Mrs. Hudson would let you out of it, I'm certain."

John's first reaction was to open his mouth and tell Sherlock he was crazy, and of course he wasn't going anywhere, but he stopped. He was sharing his flat with a creature made of sex and bloodlust. He swallowed, and Sherlock could see the doubt in his eyes. He didn't know how he felt about all of this... But he did know that he still trusted Sherlock. He thought about it, and took some extra time to make sure that he was sure about his decision. It was a long time before he answered. "No, I'm... I'm not going to leave." His voice took a lighter note for just a moment. "After all, it is a very nice flat." Before Sherlock could take his hand off of John's knee, John intercepted it, taking it in his own, and this time without the glove between their skin. He gave Sherlock a little smile, and in a moment of insight realized that Sherlock chose him to share a flat with, to be friends with... And if that was the case then he must have been rather lonely. John's eyes softened. Who wouldn't be, if they were immortal? John wasn't going to just disappear on him.

Sherlock jerked his head back around to look at John in surprise. He had been certain John would take the easy way out and hightail it now that Sherlock had made the offer. He was planning to make the usual, "I will find you if you tell anyone, blah blah blah" speech, and then...He wanted to stay? Sherlock squeezed John's palm, feeling the warmth seep in to his own. "Yes," He said in a hesitant voice he refused to admit was his own. "It is quite a nice flat. And Mrs. Hudson is very lovely once she's gotten to know you."

John knew that the squeeze of his hand was worth a thousand thankful words that Sherlock wasn't saying, that John wasn't even sure he wanted to hear. Sherlock had done quite a bit for him, and all he wanted to do was return the favor in any way he could. As sappy as it sounded, maybe all that either of them needed was to not be alone. And the best place to not be alone was with each other. John understood now. What Sherlock saw in him. He wouldn’t run from Sherlock, wouldn't hide. Was afraid, but in a good way. "I think we're going to need to set up a roommate agreement, though. You keep your fetuses in closed containers, and give me a heads up if you feel like you're about to bite me, and I'll make the tea." He gave Sherlock a cheeky little grin.

Sherlock decided that everything left unsaid was, well, better left unsaid, so instead of opening his mouth and saying something soppy like, "How have I gotten by so far without someone like you?", he jumped lithely to his feet, using the hold he had on John to pull him up with him. The arm wound was closed and there was no psychosomatic limp to worry about now. He could do things like that. "It seems I've quite thoroughly interrupted your sleep, with the sucking of your blood and the revelation that you'll be sharing space with an inhuman creature. I should allow you to get back to it." He had no way of knowing just how true his words were, no way to know that the reason John was awake at all was because of his presence in John's dreams.

John blinked as Sherlock pulled him up as though he were a rag doll. John considered putting 'No inhuman super strength' on the roommate agreement too. Before Sherlock could drag him off to his room and tuck him into bed, John pulled him back, giving him a gentle yank until they were standing face to face with an insignificant amount of space between them. "Sherlock, besides picking up a few shifts here or there, I'm unemployed. If I need sleep, I'll sleep in." In all honesty John wasn't a fan of that idea, because he was used to having a very organized sleeping schedule, but it was true. Instead, John looked down pointedly at the erection he'd known Sherlock had all along. How could he not know? "Do you want some help with that? Before I'm off to bed again?" He asked, giving Sherlock what he hoped were bedroom eyes. The army doctor gave a little laugh. 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gasp, more smut. And also a bit of angst at the end because...I feed off of angst. Mmm, teary.

Sherlock made a strangled noise far in the back of his throat as his mind immediately kicked in to over drive and imagined every possible - and one completely impossible - way John could "help him with that". Without the daze of the blood, Sherlock really was not very forward about these sorts of things. He was definitely not a virgin, but the whole affair had never really been worth his time, and so in the end he'd developed a bit of an aversion to the whole thing. For John to just outright state it...He raised an eyebrow, none of his emotions seeping through except a dull amusement. "Do you normally offer your flatmates help with this sort of thing? Is this something new that I'm not aware of in this century? You humans, always pushing your social boundaries." He joked while under the surface his thoughts raced. The erection that had been softening came back in full force and Sherlock had to discreetly shift so as to not make it even more obvious to John's, admittedly rather keen, observation.

John raised an incredulous eyebrow at him. "You just molested and bit me! As much as I'm not particularly upset about that, don't you think that chiding me for being too forward is a bit hypocritical?" John asked. "You got me off. I'm just offering to return the favor." He gave a low chuckle. “It's not exactly a loss or a pain, you know, tossing off my attractive flat mate." He was excited, now more than ever, to give Sherlock some measure of his own pleasure. Beyond feeding, that was, because John didn't think he could lose much more blood that day. "So? What do you say?"

Sherlock protested, "That was an accident! How was I supposed to resist?! You were- You were like a great bloody incubus, if those existed!" He shook his head. "Not the point. I-" He stopped, unsure how to continue. "How would one go about this, then?" His eyes cut to the side, unable to maintain contact with John's. A pink flush steadily spread itself over his pale cheekbones and he bit his lip softly, reddening it. For one of the first times in recent memory, seeing as how he deleted old ones and it would be illogical to just say "for the first time", Sherlock found himself missing the bloodlust that made him assertive in these situations.

“I was just thinking that YOU were an incubus not a moment ago." He said with a spreading grin. He closed the gap between them and reached up to smooth his fingers through Sherlock's hair. It was messy, yes, but clean as well, and soft. John decided if Sherlock was allowed to suck his blood, he was allowed to play with Sherlock's hair. He gave Sherlock a disbelieving look. "Do you really not know how to do this? You've been alive for centuries and you can't put yourself in a sexual encounter where bloodsucking isn't involved?" He couldn't help but give a chuckle, and yes, his amusement was at Sherlock's expense, but in his defense it was damned funny. "Well, there's this thing called kissing..." He said, leaning in a bit and looking up into Sherlock's eyes to be sure that it was alright that he kiss him.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I'm sure I have done this before, but I've deleted the information. Erased it from my memory," He added at John's clueless look. His breathing sped up slightly when John's hands slid in to his hair. "That is...surprisingly pleasant," He said. John was so short, Sherlock wondered just how comical the situation looked right now, with Sherlock standing straight and John reaching his arms up to touch his head. His tongue darted out at the mention of kissing. "As I said, I have done this before. It's just generally proven to be boring..." Social niceties would say it's a bad idea to mention your disdain with sexual acts while about to perform one, but Sherlock never really got the memo. Or any of the memories on how to act in society, really.

John wasn't put off by Sherlock's opinion of kissing. Rather, he saw it as a challenge.  He leaned up on his toes all the way, and pulled Sherlock's head down towards his, and his lips found Sherlock's. Determined to show Sherlock that kissing need not be boring, he pressed into it, slipping his tongue between Sherlock's lips and tasting him. John tasted his own blood on Sherlock's tongue, which should have made him gag, but it didn't.  He wasn't, however, accounting for how razor sharp Sherlock's fangs were, and he cut his lower lip open on them by accident. It stung a little, but he just kept kissing Sherlock, exploring the other man's mouth and not minding the taste of more blood as it slowly seeped from his lip. His fingers massaged over Sherlock's scalp, giving him a bit of a rub. He rather hoped that Sherlock was enjoying this.

Sherlock made a startled sound before submitting completely to the onslaught of John's tongue. When John's lip split, however, his hesitancy slipped away. Sherlock's hands slip up John's torso, only to drag back down ever so slowly, the nails leaving a trail of red lines over John's skin that caused the reptilian part of Sherlock's brain to hiss in pleasure and all but scream, "MINE". He licked at John's lower lip several times, slid his tongue back in to John's mouth, and proceeded to show him what exactly you could learn with an immortal life. His hands finally found their way to John's hips, where they gripped hard at first, possibly too hard, before he loosened his hold. Sherlock needed to remind himself constantly how breakable John was. It was getting rather hard to remember, though, as Sherlock continued to swallow what little blood came from John's lip. He almost bit down against it just to cause it to flow more. Almost. The thought of taking when John obviously didn't want it to happen repulsed him just enough to clear away the fog forming in his brain.

John's breath caught as Sherlock became suddenly involved. Jesus, what he was like when he had motivation... And he was POSSESSIVE. John felt like he wouldn't mind belonging to the man. That in itself was terrifying. There couldn't be more than a few drops of blood coming from his lip, but it made Sherlock a madman. Now John had to use his arms to grip tight to Sherlock, so that he wouldn't lose his balance. The marks Sherlock left on his body, bruises and scratches alike, were not something John would have asked for, but neither did he really mind them. He also didn't mind (very much didn't mind) Sherlock's kissing technique once he got into it. Finally, he needed a break, needed to take a different route, and he pulled away from the kiss. Keeping himself perfectly close, he caught up with his breathing and took a moment to look at Sherlock's face.

Sherlock growled softly when John pulled away, quickly ducking his head as he caught sight of John looking at him, and began nuzzling at John's neck, kissing and sucking on it gently all while keeping his fangs as far from the skin as possible. "Are my skills sufficient, John? Am I up to par?" He asked the man's clavicle bone after placing a soft kiss there. He planted kiss after kiss up John's throat until his lips hovered just above John's own. "Would you like to leave the bathroom now?" His lips brushed teasingly against John's with every word.

John’s breathing was heavy, couldn't help it. Fuck. Sherlock had been so shy just a moment ago and that had been endearing as hell, but now he was all take-charge and sure of himself, and with every reason to be. He was damn good at what he did. "You're fucking excellent." John breathed into his mouth. "It's me who should be worried about keeping up. I don't care where we go as long as we get there quick- I want to get back to it." He said. Christ, John had thought that he was supposed to be getting Sherlock off, not the other way around!

Sherlock chuckled in John's ear, a low sound that called up images of sex and velvet. He began walking backwards, pulling John by the hips, all the while brushing against John's throat like an animal. He flawlessly navigated them to the bedroom that he rarely used without once looking up from where he seemed to have permanently attached himself. He finally stepped away from John to turn and begin clearing off the bed. It was half buried in textbooks and reference books and old newspaper articles.

But John didn't want to wait for him. Instead, he grabbed him again and pressed him up into the doorframe. It wasn't as if Sherlock couldn't reappropriate him, couldn't pick him up and set him down wherever he liked, but John didn't care in that moment, didn't care. He forced Sherlock into eye contact with him, and as his hands began to work down over Sherlock's body, sliding away his trousers and pants, John made a show of biting his lip, savagely tearing flesh himself, more blood soaking out of it, an offer to Sherlock. He wasn't in the mood for losing more blood, but a bleeding lower lip was hardly going to make him woozy.

Sherlock's eyes blew wide at the obvious display and offer and his hips bucked hard against John's from a spike of pure _want_. Sherlock allowed himself to be pressed against the door, but his upper half darted forward so that he could messily attack John's lip with his own mouth. If he were entirely sane at the moment he might have made a note to get John checked out, he was clearly insane, offering himself up like that to an aroused vampire. He was distantly aware that he was making snarly growling noises deep in his chest. He also distantly wondered if it was frightening John.

Yes, for the record, it was. More and more, John's fear didn't matter. It was just one more part of the whole experience. He was coming to learn that those noises were ones of possessiveness. Sherlock wanted John to be HIS. With one hand grasping Sherlock's hair again, to give him some slight semblance of control over what the man did with his head, and the other pulling Sherlock's hips forward to grind against him completely.  John let himself be attacked, flexing his lip in Sherlock's mouth to keep a steady flow of blood trickling from it. John's hand found its way to Sherlock's cock, and gently, it tugged at him, running up and down and over the appendage, which was long like the rest of him. Well then, this would teach him, wouldn't it?

Sherlock threw back his head and panted unashamedly. One hand slid around John's back to cup his arse, the other once again scratching down his chest, but lighter this time. "Mon Dieu, oui." He panted out, slipping in to French in the heat of his daze. He'd spent many years in Paris perfecting seduction skills for cases, and ever since then he had the bad habit of slipping in to it when he got hot and bothered. "Donnez-moi davantage, svp." At times he didn't even realize he was doing it. Like now. He licked John's blood greedily from his lips, all the while still bucking his hips up in to John's hand, silently begging for more.

John's mouth and eyes opened wide in disbelief. Was Sherlock...? Well, if that wasn't the single most arousing thing he'd ever heard apart from "quite remarkable".  "I don't have a clue what you're saying, you know." He said to Sherlock, kissing the foreign tongue from his lips. Did Sherlock know he did that? John gave a little groan of appreciation, and pressed his arse back into Sherlock's hand more fully as his hand began to work over Sherlock. John could infer from his mannerisms that he wanted more, even if he didn't understand what Sherlock was asking for. He tightened his grip, giving the tiniest of twists at the end.

Sherlock shook his head, groaning, unable to speak for a moment. "Sorry, I'm sorry, habit-" his words cut off in to another moan. "This isn't going to last long, John. This is...it's...abnormal...for me." His words were interspersed with breathy moans, and when he said John it came out more like Jean. The hand on John's arse pulled suddenly so that they were even closer together. He stretched back his head again, attempting to fight back the end he knew was coming. He wanted it to last a little longer, he needed it to. John's hand on his cock was better than crime scenes, better than the thrill of proving he was clever.

John could feel it, feel how outrageously close Sherlock was getting, and he backed off a little, knowing somehow that it would be welcome as a way to drag everything out, rather than a cruel tease. "Don't apologize. I said that I couldn't understand you. Not that it was a turn off. And it definitely ISN'T. Next, it's all fine. I don't mind if it's short. You can be as abnormal as you please." He smiled a little and leaned his own face down into Sherlock's neck, giving him little sharp, hard love bites that might even have felt like fangs breaking the skin. He just wanted to simulate the feeling for Sherlock, so they could share that feeling.

Sherlock whimpered, full out whimpered at the bites to his throat. John had no idea what he was doing. To Sherlock's kind, the baring of the throat and then the biting like that signified that the two were mates, were bonded for life. John didn't know but Sherlock's brain was wired for it, and it was telling him that this was his mate in front of him. His hands flew up to John's shoulders, harshly pushing him away only to frog march him backwards until he fell to the bed. In a blur he was on top of John, straddling his hips, and very slowly unbuttoning the shirt he was wearing. "Le mien. T'es le mien. Toujours et à jamais.

John had no idea what kind of imprinting he was doing on Sherlock just then. He had no idea how binding it was, how he had just made Sherlock his, forever. Until he died. Either of them. John was too busy being pressed into the bed and having a pair of long, strong thighs around him, and then having his mind roll by whatever Sherlock was saying. "Yes, Sherlock, yes." He said, not knowing just how very much he was agreeing to with that yes. "Fuck, Sherlock!' Sherlock was all bursts of random energy. Generally he moved very slowly and deliberately, but in bed it seemed that he could become a madman at any moment. Each time it was a wonderful, terrifying surprise. "Jesus, you're possessive." Luckily, John didn't mind.

Sherlock was gone. Completely and utterly gone the moment John submitted, the moment he said yes. "Le mien. Le mien. Le mien," He whispered, placing a kiss on a different part of John's trembling body with each whisper. Sherlock shimmied down the bed, expertly taking the waistband of John's boxers in his mouth and tugging them down with him. At least he had John completely bared. Sherlock wasted no time in reclaiming his spot above John's hips. Sherlock took a minute to rock back and just stare. The world was gone in this moment. All that existed was John. The sharp intakes, the forceful exhales, the way his hips bucked against Sherlock when Sherlock ground down, the look in his eyes, the blood flowing beneath tanned skin, the sweat on his skin that Sherlock was lapping up like sparkling water. John, John, John. He fell. And he did not regret it. 

Sherlock was maddening, this way. He was single-minded, focusing only on John, so absorbed in him that it could almost be described as need. John reacted with each little whisper of what was to John, absolute gibberish, wriggling slightly or letting out a soft, low moan. When Sherlock's teeth revealed his cock, Sherlock could see the obvious; John was completely aroused once more. It had been a while since John had had two orgasms in one evening, needless to say, but john wasn't complaining. Why would he? Sherlock was fantastic. Briefly, John wondered if all vampires were this passionate in bed. Sherlock's behavior was not quite human, after all, so perhaps it was a constant throughout his species. For a moment, John thought, didn't Sherlock say he had a brother...? Maybe if John ever met him he would- But wait. Sherlock has said he'd had a weight problem. Not a deal breaker, but maybe John would wait until he met the man to decide. Then John remembered that he was a monster of the throat-tearing-out variety, and he shut that idea down completely. Perhaps Sherlock knew some attractive vampire women who would be disinclined to kill him. It was worth pondering. John had no idea about the headspace Sherlock was in, the kind of bond and relationship he'd unknowingly asked for, and how reverently Sherlock wanted that, wanted him. John was grateful to Sherlock and liked him a whole lot, thought he could even fall in love with the man, but at that moment, John didn't consider himself to be with Sherlock, or with anyone, for that matter.

Sherlock had no way of knowing through his daze that he was significantly more attached in this venture than John. His brain was telling him his mate was submitting, and that meant they were both equally invested. He had no way of knowing John hadn't a clue what he'd gotten himself in to, because Sherlock's brain had decided to take a short little vacation for the time being. "Tell me if I hurt you," He said softly before slipping back down the bed and slipping John's cock in to his mouth, very mindful of the fangs. With years of practice he easily took the entire length in to his mouth before he pulled back to lave the underside with his tongue.

John's eyes rolled up as Sherlock switched to English once more. Christ, he was so entranced by John and still the first thing he did was look out for John's safety? He wasn't like any monster John had ever heard of, that was for sure. Inhuman, yes, definitely, could be seen even better from up close... But that wasn't an insult, in this case. Sherlock DID possess strength of character, then, and to John that was more endearing than anything else. Or at least it did, until he felt Sherlock's mouth on him. He knew how sharp those fangs were, and his heart raced, mind telling him to make Sherlock stop before he was injured where he was most delicate, but that rush of fear was just extra, John knew, and as Sherlock kept going, he managed not to hurt him. Plus, getting your cock sucked by someone with centuries of practice and unwavering devotion to you was...Well, John decided not to stop him, obviously.

Sherlock knew the added fear would just make it better for John, which was one of the reasons he didn't retract the fangs. Adrenaline junkies were always so very interesting in bed, he thought, as he hollowed out his cheeks and gave a rather vicious suck. He swirled his tongue around the tip several times before going back to deep throating John. After a moment of that he pulled off with an obscene "pop" noise. “Any complaints so far, John?" He asked the man's hipbones, a rather prominent smirk on his lips that could be heard in his smug tone.

Now that it was the perfect time to, John's hands came and curled in Sherlock's hair once more. John wasn't a backseat blower, he didn't try to move or guide Sherlock in any way with his hands there, no, Sherlock was perfectly capable. He just wanted to feel Sherlock's softness between his fingers, and if the going got tough, have something to grasp at. Sherlock obviously knew what he was doing. John had never received head like this in his life. It was phenomenal. He couldn't stop the groans and even the high cries that escaped him when Sherlock sucked him in earnest, or moved his tongue in a way that was just sinful. "Yes!" He gasped when Sherlock pulled away. "You stopping!"

Downstairs Mrs. Hudson couldn't sleep. She daintily sipped her tea, which was helping her down some Herbal soothers. She heard loud voices upstairs and chuckled to herself. Wouldn't be needing two bedrooms after all. At it on the first night before they'd even moved in. Finally, she would have some bragging rights when Mrs. Turner came 'round.

Sherlock chuckled and then proceeded to drive John out of his mind. He would bring him to just the edge of collapse, and then back off. Repeatedly. It was a good thing he didn't delete any of his sexual skills from his brain, only the way he learned them, because he found he was really quite enjoying this more than he thought he would. Maybe it was just because it was John. The third time he almost brought John to orgasm, he slid a hand up to his mouth, slicking one finger with his saliva, and then gently proceeded to press in to John, expertly hitting the prostate on his first swipe. Then he paused, mouth and finger and all. He wanted the other man completely delirious before Sherlock allowed him to cum.

John has played this game before, he knows how it goes. He's supposed to be brought to the edge over and over, until he can't stand it anymore, and it is supposed to be wonderful, wonderful torture. Sherlock's treatment of this particular technique was definitely up to expectations. The first two times, John powered through by throwing an arm over his eyes and letting out a plethora of noises he didn't really mean to make. The third time, Sherlock was going too far with it. John hadn't had anal sex in a long time. Years, even, since before the army. His entire body shivered in ecstasy, and the frustrated sound he let out when Sherlock backed off again what more of a whine than anything. He couldn't do this anymore. It was too much, and too good, and surely he couldn't be blamed for just wanting to come already. "Please, Sherlock." He panted. "Stop TEASING..." Sherlock's mouth could bring him off obviously, so why DIDN'T it? Sherlock could even keep those terrifyingly long fingers inside him if he wanted, just... He needed more than Sherlock was giving him.

Sherlock grinned in victory. He curled his finger once more before easing it out as gently as he possibly could. He didn't want to injure John, just drive him ever so slightly insane. With a smug little chuckle he once again took John deep in to his throat, the noise vibrating all around John's cock. His tongue was in constant motion as Sherlock bobbed his head up and down, randomly switching the pressure he was exerting from harsh sucking to light. The end was coming, he knew, and this time he let it happen. When John came Sherlock pulled back but did not disengage, letting the bitter taste hit the back of his throat.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More plot! Dun dun duuuun!

When John came, he gave Sherlock the rather unplanned pleasure of hearing his name desperate on John's lips. "Ohh, Yes, that's... Oh I swear to god if you stop now Sherlock I'll... Sherlock...Oh, Sherlock, Sherlock!! Sherl-" His breath was stolen from him and instead he gave a silent scream, eyes shutting tight as he came in Sherlock's mouth. It was really rather a wonderful feeling, but a random thought came to him at that moment, as sometimes they did. As he came down from it, John's body relaxed against the mattress, and he tugged on Sherlock's head just a bit, trying to get him to return his head to eye level with John's. "Hope that didn't taste too...Disgusting." John panted, finally replying to Sherlock's comment from before.

Sherlock licked his lips with a downright wanton expression on his face. "I certainly didn't mind," he panted. Sherlock's hips rolled against the bed with a steady grind he had been keeping up the entire time, attempting to alleviate the distracting arousal between his legs. Sherlock flopped off of John and lay on his side next to him. "I hope I did not disappoint. It has been quite a while since I've done that." His fingers trailed intricate designs lightly along John's abdomen, barely touching. Sherlock knew he was good, damn good, but it had been rather a long time and he didn't know just what kind of things John was in to be able to replicate them. Maybe he liked it harder and faster? Maybe slower? This dilemma called for as much experimentation as possible.

John snorted, a funny little laugh. "Bite your tongue. That was hands down, the best oral I've ever had. I wasn't expecting it to come from the man who didn't know how to begin a sexual encounter." He said, taking a moment to catch his breath. He wasn't sure why Sherlock was rutting against the bed. Hell, he wasn't sure why Sherlock had done that to him in the first place, not that he was complaining, but... "Wasn't it your turn, though, not mine?" He rolled over on top of Sherlock a bit, letting one hand run over the pale, bare skin of Sherlock's chest. "I've come twice and you not at all. I know you don't have trouble getting it up, so... I'd say it's time to even the score."

Sherlock grinned and leaned back, preparing himself for whatever John chose to do, when he noticed an odd sort of humming in the back of his mind. Something lurked there, something that was warm and radiated satiation and contentment and excitement and- Oh, Jesus fuck, Sherlock thought. No, no, no. Those are John's emotions. All at once Sherlock's eyes widened, his back shot up off the bed and he scrambled up against the headboard, away from John. How did that happen? No wonder he had felt more possessive than normal. He had thought it was just John (and in a way it was), but it was the bond beginning to form. They were mates. Sherlock had accidentally mated them for life. "Holy fuck," he whispered in horror. How could he do that to John?

John sat up immediately too, formerly boneless and pliant body now tight as a bow. He was ready to react to whatever was going on, even though he didn't have a clue. John certainly couldn't feel anything strange in his head, even if he'd been looking for it, which he hadn't. John had been ready to reciprocate. He was half tempted to offer Sherlock some fellatio of his own, but John knew he wasn't anywhere near as skilled as Sherlock was, so he wasn't quite sure. Sherlock jumping around like he'd seen a ghost was definitely not what he had in mind.  John looked at Sherlock, cataloging to make sure he wasn't dying or anything. "Sherlock, are you alright?" He asked. All at once he wanted to touch him, rub his shoulder or hold his hand and assure him that he would be alright, but on the other hand he also knew that there was not always a time for touching, and this might be one of them. "What's gotten into you?"

Sherlock pressed himself as far away from John as he could on the limited space of the bed. His eyes scanned John, looking for any sign that he could feel Sherlock's emotions. Sherlock wasn't sure if that would even happen. Vampires didn't mate with humans, as a rule. Sherlock hadn't even known it was possible. "Fuck, fuck, fuck," began spilling out of his mouth as a mantra. John was going to hate him. Wholly human John. Sherlock had tainted him. Molly was right, completely right, this was destined to end badly, but this was ridiculous. Sherlock dropped his head in to his hands and moaned. How was he going to fix this? "I need you to stay away from me." Physical touch would only strengthen it. "Don't touch me. Please."

John frowned, then. Well, good to know. "Don't worry, I'm not going to touch you." He said, voice taking on that warm, calming quality. Sherlock could feel John's apprehension now, different from Sherlock's own. "Just tell me what's wrong, alright? We'll see if we can fix it." He came up to the head of the bed and sat near the pillows, pulling his legs up and resting his arms on them, and keeping a good foot away from Sherlock. "Is it some sort of…Vampire thing? I didn't hurt you, did I?" Did Sherlock need more blood? John would give it to him if he needed it.

The moment Sherlock's brain came up with the solution, his entire body froze for a long moment. Then the panic and sorrow kicked in. Everyone leaves, eventually, whether by choice or by death, but that John would be leaving, even if only leaving Sherlock’s bed, so soon was a cruelty Sherlock didn't want to handle. "John," His voice was a moan, but this was no longer the aroused sound. "John, I need you to look me in the eye." His head lifted up, expression pained. When John did as he asked Sherlock began the glamour. "When you wake up, you will not remember anything about tonight after you went to bed. I am a human being and this...this...encounter never happened. You were never stabbed. The scratch on your arm is from an old accident that has healed. Go, now. Go to your room and sleep until morning." He broke eye contact.

As soon as Sherlock broke eye contact, John blinked. His mind was fuzzy, so completely fuzzy that he might as well have been drugged. Only a few things were clear at all: That he was with Sherlock, and that was good, and he liked him and he wanted him, and that he was dead tired, and he felt magnets from his bedroom calling out and pulling him in. He couldn't resist them, only for a few moments, but Sherlock was there too so John could spare him a moment. He reached out, a hand coming to brush the back of Sherlock's neck, thumb gently running over his jaw, and he leaned in to kiss him on one high cheekbone. "'m dead tired." He mumbled to Sherlock. "Think I'm going to head to bed."

Sherlock's entire body shuddered as the bond solidified at the touch. "G-goodnight, John." He stuttered, trying to deal with the fact that he suddenly had a mate. After John left the room he tucked his long legs up, wrapped his arms around them, and proceeded to bang his head on to his kneecaps, muttering all the while derogatory things about himself and his higher brain functions. He could phone Mummy and ask her if there were any way to break it, but he had not spoken to her since he'd left the coven to live among humans. There was Mycroft, but Sherlock would rather rip out his own fangs than willingly ask his brother for anything.

John gave Sherlock a sleepy, dazed, but entirely sincere smile and then climbed off the bed and did what he'd been convinced to do. That evening John slept well as all of his memories were tucked inside the glamour, a tiny little pouch that took residence inside his head and kept John from remembering a thing about what Sherlock had told him. Reconstructing things to make sense again, John's mind made a few things up. First off, his limp would be back. There was no reason for him to have lost it in the first place. Second, he'd have a hell of a headache. Only way to explain how he'd forgotten all of that time so inexplicably.

On the bedside table, Sherlock's phone chimed. _Things going well with flat mate? Night shift at morgue. Bored! ): MH_

In the end Sherlock got maybe three hours of sleep after sulking in his room for perhaps two. In the morning he dragged himself out of the room after snatching up his phone, forcing himself to face what he'd done. He would have to be prepared to shirk any and all physical touches from John from now on. He needed the bond to be as weak as possible. With a sigh he read Molly's message, hand running aggravated through his hair.

 _Everything is fine, as I said it would be. Anything new or interesting in? SH._ He responded. He wasn't quite ready to hear her say "I told you so".

 _Two very similar suicides, unrelated victims. No good for you, poisoned. DI says third is on the way. May ask for help. Txt him? MH._ The reply was, not long after. 

When Sherlock stepped out of his room he was met with a very unamused, bedraggled John curled up on the couch with a cup of coffee and the bloodstained (but now dry) jumper on. His hair was mussed and his eyes bleary. "Sherlock." He said, not lifting his head from where it was tucked into his chest. "Why was my cane downstairs? Why are my jumper and shirt stained? And more importantly, what the HELL did we drink last night?” Had to have been tequila. Nothing else screwed John up this bad. But why the hell would they have had tequila for a housewarming party? Not to mention the stain on his sweater could ONLY be from blood, he knew bloodstains when he saw them. John was also worried about what else they might have gotten up to the previous night. He had almost hand shaped marks all up and down his torso, and a faint red mark on his neck that he suspected was a hickey. Still, he had woken up with underwear on in his own bed, so... Maybe they roughhoused or went off somewhere or something happened. Or maybe they fucked. He really didn't have the slightest clue. The last thing he remembered was asking Sherlock about his work, sitting in this very room.

 _I will later. SH._ He responded before glancing up at John. Damn. He looked like hell. Time to make up some more lies, then. He looked back down at his phone, feigning boredom. "There was a fight at a bar. You stopped it. There was blood. I had to lug you up the stairs and dropped the cane. I haven't a clue what you drank." He was trying to ignore the fact that there was still a slight lingering scent of John on his skin and the smell of blood on that jumper. He'd need to burn that somehow and take a shower.

John groaned softly. It was reminiscent of other times that he'd groaned recently. "Hell of a housewarmer, don't you think? I haven't even moved my stuff in yet." John was just glad that Sherlock wasn't making that much noise. If he decided on now to get his violin out John would kill him, in cold blood, genius or no. Slowly, John raised his head. Sherlock's explanation made sense. Even pissed out of his mind that seemed like the kind of thing he'd do. "You alright then? I hope you didn't get too involved. Don't need to be making any enemies, I suppose."

Sherlock smirked slightly at the thought of a human trying to pick a fight with him in a bar. How quaint. "I am fine, of course. I'm not stupid enough to insert myself in to a fight that I don't belong in." He attempted to moderate his voice so that the words were not as acid as they would be had he been saying them to anyone else. He knew without a doubt that had that situation happened, John really would have attempted to stop it. "Now if you'll excuse me, I am dying for a shower." He turned and fled in a dignified manner to the bathroom. He shucked his clothes with little decorum and jumped in to a burning hot shower, scrubbing at every inch of skin until it felt raw, all in an attempt to forget that John had touched him last night.

Try as he might, John wouldn't leave Sherlock's skin. The smell left, sure, scrubbed away and covered up with Sherlock's soap, but John was still there. He'd been there, on Sherlock's skin. His blood sat lovely in Sherlock's stomach. His headache and general misery buzzed in the back of Sherlock's mind like a quiet, subtle symphony. Sherlock had a mate, and he wasn't going anywhere.

Sherlock snarled, irritated beyond all belief that he could still feel John, even if he could no longer smell him. The word "STUPID!" constantly ran through his head at a shout. Eventually his skin was completely flushed a dull red and his fingers began to prune. He stepped out of the shower, hastily threw a towel around his hips, and stalked out of the bathroom in a black mood from his sulking. Halfway to his room his phone chirped again, signifying another text. It was pointless, from someone asking him to take care of a case he'd  solved already with the little bit of information in that message, but it served to have him paused nearly naked, dripping wet, right in front of John's line of sight. Not that Sherlock noticed. He was much too preoccupied with thoughts on his own stupidity and the stupidity of others.

 The flare of arousal in the back of Sherlock's head was hard to miss, though. As were John's eyes which were glued to him. After a moment, John swallowed and asked, eyes still roaming over Sherlock's body, "Do you always wash yourself with a Brillo Pad?" He asked. Sherlock's skin looked like he'd been trying to scrub it clear off in very hot water. Even then, he looked...stunning, edible. "More than that, do you plan on spending a lot of time flouncing around the house, naked? Perhaps we should draw up a roommate agreement." Now he looked at Sherlock's face, giving him a 'We're bros now right?' smile.

Sherlock jerked his head to the side at the shot of arousal that hit him in the abdomen. Ah. So John was still attracted to him, physically. He had wondered if that would somehow be erased with the glamour. It was...oddly comforting. His hand shot down to grip the knot in the towel, the only way to protect his modesty. Well. Not like John hadn't already seen everything last night- And he was cutting that thought process off right now before unfortunate things began happening underneath the towel. "Apologies," He muttered. "I was- well-" He waved the phone in his hand towards the door across from him, a blush creeping across his already pink cheeks, half in embarrassment and half in arousal.

"Well, go on then. If I have something important to tell you I'll do it when you're dressed." John said, though the most important thing he could think of to say was "You could give a heart attack with a body like yours, Jesus Christ”. Sherlock was so damned stunning, it was really unfair. John saw the blush, and since it was so uncharacteristic it really was endearing. John wanted to see more of it. "You're really rather fit, though. Popular with the ladies, I suppose?" He asked Sherlock, because he wanted to know if Sherlock was going to bring back a new woman to their flat every night.

Sherlock blinked at the compliment, feeling ridiculously awkward, standing in the hall nearly nude and carrying on a conversation about nonsensical things. He smirked, though, at the question. "Certainly. Until I open my mouth. Most do not seem so keen after that." He shifted his weight slightly, once again trying to ignore all of John's emotions curling up in the back of his head. This was going to be hard. "The men usually stick around longer than the women. It's rather curious, actually. It just goes to show that they will put up with almost anything for the prospect of a good shag." He shook his head in confusion.

John gave a little chuckle. "I suppose it's quite the opposite for you than it is for me, then." He said, feeling glad at this bit of comfortable camaraderie that was beginning between them as they discussed topics like sex. "The women tend to stay longer than the men. They fancy the idea of having a doctor for a boyfriend, and that lasts longer than any purely sexual relationship, even if it doesn't last forever." He'd never had a terrible amount of luck with any long term relationships, but he'd been in love a handful of glorious and painful times. His eyes searched Sherlock. Would this be another of those times? Or perhaps...It wouldn't be so painful? Maybe it would even work out. Or...not. "So, you don't have a girlfriend, then?"

Sherlock abruptly felt dirty, being able to sense John's feelings like this without the other man knowing it.  "Women bore me utterly. And the men are not much better," He added, heading off the question he just knew John would follow up with. He decided to just completely ignore John's comment about his past relationships. Imagining John with others, his body writhing with passion and soaked with sweat, had Sherlock grinding his teeth and resisting the urge to hiss aloud. The bond was too new, too volatile, that if he was not wary of it at every moment, he would find himself acting the part of a vicious, jealous vampire. And no one wanted that.

John's smile faltered, but only for a split second. It wasn't like it mattered anyway. Sherlock could feel his disappointment. "Right. Not really your area, then?" He asked, trying to ignore the crushing feeling in his chest telling him that he didn't have a chance. Well, what did he expect, really? They were flatmates, and hopefully friends, and they needn't be anything more than that. "Clearly you've got more important things to think about, like freezer burn on dismembered feet." He joked. John just wanted to have a good relationship with this man. He was offering John so much already, and John was filled with hope about their life to come.

Sherlock felt his disappointment and he rushed to reassure him, even though he knew he shouldn't. He should have just nodded, made up some line about being married to his work, and moved on with the conversation. Instead he found his mouth opening and spewing out, "No! I mean, it's not my area, per say, but it has been known to happen. I said it was usually boring, not that I did not have hormones." He said this bit a little lower than the rest, thinking of the time Anderson called him a robot. "I prefer...remarkable people." Sherlock said before he remembered that he had called John 'rather remarkable' the night before. The blush came back to his cheeks and he cleared his throat. "Anyway. I believe I'll go get dressed now," And he hastily made his retreat to the bedroom. That was quite awkward, he thought.

John couldn't remember the reference, but he could still remember Sherlock pointedly making sure John knew that he was 'not boring at all'. There was another flutter in his chest, and then as Sherlock turned around to go, low in his stomach. Was Sherlock inviting him? Surely Sherlock had been paying attention to their conversation from last night. Surely he didn't say anything accidentally. John took another sip of coffee and went to studying the interesting rug.  Well, then. Very red. Did he have a chance? Sherlock wasn't telling him otherwise. John decided then that he would take it. He wouldn't push it, but he'd see if Sherlock was interested in him at all.

Sherlock was certainly interested. So interested, in fact, that once he'd made it to his bedroom he tossed away the towel and decided to have a nice long wank. After feeling John's arousal, he was already primed for it. He leaned back against his headboard, calling to mind images of last night. His pale fingers danced up and down his length, light at first, teasing himself. When he finally took himself in hand seriously, he threw back his head and moaned low under his breath. He did not want to alert John to what he was doing. But the thought of him coming in and catching him was...Ah. He imaged John stretched out under him, pinned, moaning and begging for Sherlock to grant him release. He imagined finally entering John's body and taking what he needed from his throat at the same time. His hand sped up, alternating a light grip and a tight one. Sherlock's hips began bucking off the bed, trying to fuck up in to his fist. It was over embarrassingly quickly. If not for the last sane bit of his brain reminding him of the need for silence, Sherlock would have screamed. Instead he bit down hard on a knuckle to muffle the drawn out moan and the exclamation of "John!" that came with his sudden plunging over the edge and in to blissful oblivion. Afterwards he stretched out on the bed, body twitching from aftershocks of pleasure every now and then, staring at the ceiling. The dirty, almost ashamed feeling did not leave him. He hadn’t expected it to.

So John made the very average plan to take Sherlock out to dinner that night. It would be food, at the very least, and there was more getting-to-know-you to be done. All he needed was for his headache to go away. John didn't think about what Sherlock could be doing in his room at all, after all, what a man did in his own bedroom was his business, but he did think to himself that he'd look forward to having Sherlock back, if only for eye candy. He was sure Sherlock knew of his attraction. Not only was the man a genius but John was sure he was being blatantly obvious about it.  John sipped at his coffee, still trying to wake up, as his headache slowly faded. This was the most tired he'd ever been, for a hangover. And his stomach wasn't queasy either. And how did he get a hickey from a bar fight, or two twin bruises on his hips exactly where a man's hands might rest? Well. Those were questions for a time when he didn't have a headache.

After Sherlock had cleaned himself up and made himself presentable, he made his way back out to the living room, snatching his laptop up and collapsing in a dramatic huff on the couch to check the website. Nothing, nothing, boring, the brother was in an affair with his wife's ex-husband, boring, that man's sister killed their mother...Nothing. Absolute garbage. "Good lord, where is a serial killer when you need one..." He muttered to himself. He was so concentrated on the laptop that, if not for the swirling emotions in the back of his head that he was trying to do his damndest to ignore, he would have forgotten John was sitting next to him.

John watched Sherlock as he came back into the room, thankfully fully clothed. He didn't bother engaging him for a long moment, just continuing to enjoy his cup of coffee and straying around he flat, letting his headache slowly abate. "So..." John said, as a conversation starter.  "Do you have any plans for today?" He asked. He wanted to move his things into the flat today. And have dinner with his flatmate. "And, er... Maybe, when you have a case, you could give me a call?" John was really looking forward to finding out how dangerous and freeing they were.

Sherlock blinked, looking up. "I have nothing on currently. Why would I call you, if you will be here, as this is now your home as well?" He paused, unsure if he should ask the next bit. In the end he went with it, because by this point the mantra in his head playing above John's emotions was starting to make him just a bit insane. “Would you perhaps like help with moving in?" Sherlock regretted deeply that his glamour returned John's limp to him. Helping lug around boxes was the least he could do.

John frowned. He'd figured that Sherlock's day would be filled with work and mad-scientist-type escapades and, well, flogging corpses or something. "Well, I figured you'd probably be busy, so...But, if you aren't, then...Yes, I'd appreciate that. It's nothing I can't handle myself, I have a rather lot of small boxes, but...Yes, your help would be greatly appreciated." John gave him one of his wide, sincere smiles, and Sherlock could feel his pleasure in the back of his head. "And maybe afterwards we can, well...Go out to dinner?"

Sherlock fought down a delicate shiver. He was not used to that feeling of pleasure, especially when it was directed at him. "Logical," He said, "as working all day would make one hungry. I must warn you, though, that I do not eat much-" He was interrupted by the chiming of his cellular once again. It was from Molly. His eyes lit up in eagerness. "I would like to stop at Bart's before or after the boxes, however. It seems something interesting has come up in the morgue."

John grinned. Then things were going just swimmingly. "Well then, I'll just head home, then, get things organized, and you can come over when you get a chance." John levered himself up and placed his mug in the sink, and then pulled on his jacket. Sherlock wasn't obligated to come and help him, anyway, but it would be nice to get the assistance and the company. John's mind flickers for a bit. Sherlock, doing manual labor. It seemed so out of place, what with his very posh and glamorous wardrobe and his graceful way of moving, but that made it somehow... Well, sexy as hell, really.  He wrote down the address, as well as his cell phone number on a piece of paper and left it for Sherlock, before bidding his farewell with an almost shy goodbye.

On Sherlock's cell phone, Molly's text read _A fourth has come in. Serial suicides. Lestrade is here. Come ASAP, please? <3 MH_

Sherlock stood from his spot on the couch, stretching languorously. He left the flat almost immediately, only taking time to strip down again and lather his body up with sun screen. He hesitated when he reached for his clothes, however, and frowned. If he was going to be helping John move, wouldn't that be dirty work? He definitely did not want to ruin any of his clothes. He had some things in his closet that were worth more than the entire flat. Instead he reached inside and shoved things around until he found a pair of dark, rumpled looking jeans and a dark teal shirt that was silk but still one of the least expensive things he had. He pocketed his phone and keys and made it to the morgue in record time. Serial suicides? This was going to be so interesting!

Molly Hooper didn't expect Sherlock to hurry over. She also didn't expect him to be dressed like an eligible bachelor. She usually expected herself to blush when he walked into the room, but she didn't expect THIS. He was looking even healthier than when she'd seen him two days ago, which made absolutely no sense, unless....She paled. Had he killed someone? He abhorred it, but clearly he'd fed, and more than just his fill...Possibilities raced through her mind, while at the same time, her eyes darted over him, taking stock of the lean line of his torso in that shirt which really shouldn't have suited his coloring as well as it did, and more importantly, his arse in jeans. JEANS, of all things! Molly wasn't religious but holy mother of Christ! Lestrade was in the morgue, looking over the corpses, and took his own moment to look Sherlock's unusual state over. Well, damn. This was out of the ordinary, but very welcome. It was welcome that he was there at all, to solve this mystery. After all, Serial suicides... it just didn't make sense. "Take your time." He said, standing back, and crossing his arms in his own suit coat.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and felt the urge to groan at Molly's conniption. They were just jeans, he thought in exasperation. Not for the first time he found himself wondering if there was something wrong with that woman. He swept in to the room, tossing his coat over an unused chair, and inspected the bodies thoroughly. He shook his head at Lestrade. "These aren't suicides. They're murders. I don't know how, but...Oh, we've got ourselves a serial killer. I love those!" He clapped his hands in glee. "We'll have to wait for him to make a mistake.”  His face flushed slightly from his excitement, something that never happened usually because of his lack of excess blood. With John's rushing through his system, his body seemed less cold, more welcoming and human.

Lestrade sighed and nodded. “That was what I thought. Couldn't be any other way. But how does the killer make them kill themselves?” It was a case unlike any he'd ever had before.  It truly didn't make any sense, but if anyone could solve it, Sherlock could. Molly kept quiet, trying to keep her eyes averted from Sherlock and the blush and anxiety off of her face. After a moment, Lestrade nodded. It was time for him to take his leave. “Give me a call if you figure anything out alright? And thanks for this.”

Sherlock nodded. "Of course. John and I will take a look at it later. This'll be interesting." He hummed in excitement. Perhaps he could rig this case like the murderer and somehow get John to react without thinking. The limp needed to go. John did not deserve to have to handle it. How did the killer manage to get a hold of all these people? There was no common thread, nothing linking them...Oh, he was going to enjoy this. His lips pulled up in to what he thought of as his "hunting" smile. He was on the trial. He wouldn't pause until the game came to an end.

Lestrade stopped where he was in the doorway, and he turned around to look at him. “John? JOHN will be on the case?” He asked incredulously. “Your housemate? He's not a consulting detective too, is he?” He asked, not sure he wanted outsiders on his cases. Molly, perceptive as she was, heard the faintest sound in Sherlock's voice when he said John's name, and looked up curiously with her almost beady dark eyes.

The case, which Sherlock would not let go of, did not bode well for John's boxes.  Perhaps with extra help it would go quicker and they could get on with it.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at Lestrade. "No, of course not. But he's a doctor. I may need a skilled medical interpretation. Actually, I am on my way to his flat now to lug around boxes. If you came and helped, we could get it done twice as fast, and we could get working on the cast that much quicker." He said, using his "listen to me, this is a good idea, do what I say, please" voice. For the moment he ignored Molly's stare. He knew that look. She was going to be pestering him soon.

Lestrade blinked at him, completely unbelieving.  He was actually FRIENDS with his housemate? And he was HELPING HIM MOVE IN?! Greg was so damn impressed that he couldn't do anything but nod in agreement. "Alright. Sure." He said. "Do you...need a ride?" Sherlock was dressed for a ride on a motorbike, after all. "Or, you can get a cab and be right behind.”

 Sherlock waved his hand, obviously dismissing Lestrade. "Go. I'll follow along in a cab." He might as well get this Molly business over with. No telling what she would do if he put her off. Stalk him, maybe, since that was what that Edward fellow did? Who knows. With a sigh he turned to face her, eyebrows raised in expectation. "Well?" He asked. He knew she wanted to say something.

As soon as Lestrade was gone she was up and staring right up at Sherlock, into Sherlock’s eyes even if that was dangerous. "What did you DO!?" She asked hysterically. "You come in here, two days after a feeding, looking better than ever! Where did you get that blood? And what happened with this John fellow? Clearly he's not dead but I KNOW well enough that things aren't... Aren't NORMAL there!" She had tears in her eyes, legitimately worried about him.

Sherlock stepped back in surprise at the tears and the high pitch of her voice. Despite his distaste at physical contact his hands came up to grip her shoulders. "Molly! Calm down!" He gave her a little shake before hastily dropping his hands from her. "I..." He glanced away. "I bit him. He's fine. I erased his memory." He really did not want to mention the wanking. Definitely not. The possessive part of his brain hissed that that was for Sherlock and Sherlock alone to know about.

Molly was as surprised that Sherlock touched her as he was. He never did that. Molly was even pretty sure that he found her to be detestable. And yet here he was... comforting her? It was unheard of but it was also reassuring. So was Sherlock's humility. After hearing his story and her eyes widening, she said, "Oh, no, you have to tell me the whole story. How did it happen? Why on god's earth did you BITE him!?  And then you just erased his memory? I mean..." She frowned, unsure of herself. "Maybe that's for the best... Are you sure he'll never remember, or find out in other ways? Are you sure it won't happen again?" She just wanted to make sure that Sherlock was safe- His secret as well as his heart.

Sherlock cleared his throat and backed a step away from her. He was not sure he wanted to share in this, but Molly had proven before that she could keep silent. Of course, half of that might have been fear and the other half lust over him. In any case, she would not speak of it to anyone else. "There was an accident. He was wounded. I...I wasn't even aware I was doing it at first. The whole night was like torture and then he- I snapped." The pink over his cheeks was a full blush now as he remembered just what it was that made him snap. Sherlock shook his head. "He should not remember. There's the possibility that it'll break, but it's very small, and it'd need something of great significance. I won't allow it to happen again. I _won't_." The last bit was startlingly vehement. Sherlock decided not to mention the bond to her. Some things humans definitely did not need to know.

Molly frowned at him. Sherlock had been doing his best, she was sure. He didn't just give in to weakness. To him, everything was transport anyway. He'd have to have been so far gone... Molly nodded, agreeing with him, hoping that Sherlock was right, that nothing else bad would happen. "I don't doubt your will power, Sherlock. Yours is stronger than anyone I've ever known. But if it happened once, aren't you worried it could happen again?" She let her eyes drop, and thought for a long moment. "Sherlock... Weren't you fully fed the night this all happened?" She asked, wondering.

Sherlock glanced down at his feet. "Yes," He snapped. He did not know how to tell her that it had not been for sustenance that he'd bitten John, but for pleasure. It had been like a bloody siren, calling out to him, rushing in the veins with John's arousal. He had been fully fed. He had still done it. "I was sated." She was going to drag it all out of him, wasn't she? He could just turn and leave...It would certainly not be the first time he'd just walked away in the middle of a conversation he did not want to have. For some reason he stayed where he was, though.

Molly hesitated for a moment, and then went to busy herself with the corpses. She didn't kid herself that they were anything but remains, but at the same time, she didn't see any harm in keeping them looking tidy. It was a kind of respect, that their hair stay somewhat neat and their fingers didn't lay at awkward angles. She liked to spruce them up and flick away stray strands of thread. It wasn't a part of her job description, it just... It was what she liked to do. This woman had been all dressed in pink when they'd brought her in. Molly tucked a stray curl back into place. The corpse still had nail polish on. "You walk by bleeding people every day, Sherlock. Half of the population bleeds on a regular basis. Usually it doesn't bother you unless you're starving. Why was John Watson different?"

Sherlock groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. "Because he was intensely aroused, all right?" His face was now fully red. That bothered him in ways he could not articulate. The fact that his body was showing things without his approval was one thing, but the idea that his embarrassment was visible irked him even more. Showing such emotions as a weakness. Mycroft would have scolded him half to stupidity if he had seen Sherlock at this moment. "Most of the population does not walk around bleeding and aroused." His voice was sharp.

Molly frowned softly. She wouldn't scold Sherlock. She could see how very bothered he was. He was doing his best, she knew. He was trying to handle it. Molly could only hope that talking about it helped a little bit. Now she wasn't prying anymore. If he refused to answer at this point, she wouldn't press. She just wanted to give him opportunities to say what he was uncomfortable saying himself. Sherlock was a monster, yes, but he wasn't evil and he was still... Well, he wasn't human but he was still a person, who needed some support from time to time. "He was aroused? While he was bleeding? Why?" She asked, hoping that Sherlock could catch her train of thought. She wasn't telling Sherlock that erasing John's memory was wrong, far from it... But maybe he needed to know that what had happened was that way for a reason.

Sherlock shrugged and leaned back against a desk, arms crossed defensively in front of him. "I assume from a dream. He threw a stitch and I heard him moving in the bathroom. Most likely from an, ah, intense dream. I didn't really ask, did I?" He frowned. Now that he thought about it, what had John been dreaming about that aroused him in his sleep for him to move about enough to reopen the injury? Sherlock should have asked. It had happened too fast. One moment his tongue was lapping at John's throat, the next it was in his mouth, and then around his cock, and finally back in his own mouth where it belonged while he panicked over the fact that he'd mated them.

Once she was finished looking the corpses over she sat herself on a stool, folding her hands in her lap to talk. "Well? What did he do? When he found out?" She wouldn't pry more about his flatmate's masturbation. It was clear that that wasn't something it would help Sherlock to talk about. Though...She could see that there was something else there. Something sexual, that Sherlock wasn't telling her. "Did he yell, or run, or...?" She remembered what it was like when she'd found out. She'd screamed and Sherlock had stopped her, had held her down. She thought she was going to die, and then... He released her. Molly had been so surprised that she stayed rooted to the spot, staring up at him. Then he asked about her morgue.

Sherlock unexpectedly let out a quiet giggle that was still rather loud in the silence of the morgue. "He asked me to lick his wound and then told me to shut up so he could enjoy the afterglow." That stupid smile was back on his face, the one that he always seemed to be giving to John or anything to do with John. It was just so ridiculous, every single time he thought of it. "He's off his bloody rocker, you know. Completely and utterly bonkers." Sherlock refused to admit that his voice was downright warm when he said this.

Molly let out a giggle herself. That John Watson was quite a fellow, then  Learn that his flatmate was a vampire and just roll with it so spectacularly. That was something even she hadn't been able to do, and she's been immersed in vampire lore for her whole life. "You like him." She said then, smiling softly at Sherlock, because even if she hadn't known that tone of voice, it really was obvious. Sherlock was practically transparent in this manner. She didn't think much before she asked, curious to a fault, "Have you ever been in love before?"

Sherlock completely froze. Something tickled the back of his mind, like a memory he had forgotten or deleted attempting to reassert itself. But that was impossible. That had never happened before. And why should it now? And with that question? That question meant nothing to him and was easily answered. "No." He said, not clarifying if he was responding to her statement or her question. He blinked several times, quickly, a headache forming just behind his eyes. This was odd.

Molly didn't need Sherlock to tell her that he liked John. If he'd denied it, she wouldn't have believed it for a moment.  She knew. It was impossible not to know. But now...Something wasn't making sense. "So, he was just fine with it? Or he at least was okay?" She frowned. If he was okay with it, then what was Sherlock's problem? "Why did you delete his memory then? Surely you aren't worried about him keeping his silence if he's not freaking out about it.  I'm sure if he knew you'd done this he'd object. So why did you do that?"

 Sherlock sighed. "There is a thing...that can happen between vampires...Called a bond." His throat burned to be saying this to someone not of his kin, but he recklessly pushed forward. For once in his life he wanted to confide in someone. Even if it was only Molly. "I didn't even know it could happen between one of my kind and one of yours!" He threw his hands up in agitation, needing to move a bit to lessen his discomfort. "It is too deep, Molly. Too vicious." His teeth ground together. "I can feel all of his emotions, and it's so new that I am overly possessive. In fact, just knowing that Lestrade will beat me to John's flat and will be there alone with him..." He hissed slightly, a completely animal sound. "It is hard to control. And I do not want him to have to deal with it. So I erased everything from his memory. It is unfair to him, both ways, but this is the lesser of two evils."

Molly covered her mouth with a small hand, manicure protected from the dead by a latex glove. “You can feel his feelings?” she asked, trying to imagine it. Sex was one thing, and vampire yet another, but involuntary, telepathic life bond?? She couldn’t argue that John might prefer to remember THAT. Obviously he wouldn’t. Who would want to know that they were unbreakably bound to a bloodthirsty beast? Or even just to Sherlock Holmes, who despite being sexy, was in no way a good person to even spend an evening with, let alone a lifetime. Poor John. But more importantly, poor Sherlock. He’d have to keep this, whatever it was, a secret. Forever. He’d have to deal with being enthralled and obsessed and needy and never let John know. Molly closed her eyes in defeat and sympathy. “Sherlock…can you handle this? Can you manage it? I…I know I’m not much help, but if there’s anything I can do…” she wanted to fix this for him. She could tell that he was hurt, and badly, because he was reacting at all. He didn’t deserve this.

Sherlock's hand clenched, the nails biting sharp in to the skin of his palm. He had seen everything Molly was thinking. Her complete disgust at being bound to him - not just a vampire, but to him. It was one of the many reasons why he'd taken John's memories and boxed them up. Sherlock did not think he could bear to see that look of pure disgust on John's face. But he also read Molly's real desire to help. He shook his head. "I can handle it. I _must_ handle it. I will not allow him to know. He can't. He does not deserve this, Molly." He looked up to stare in to her eyes, suddenly vehement. "John is- he's very pure. He is a wonderful human with morals; he's a shining glint in this world of darkness. And I have tainted him."

Molly's eyes softened with sympathy. Did Sherlock even hear himself? He was not only informing her of how John was, but of how deeply his own feelings for John ran already. Bullshit. If he hadn't been in love before, he sure was now. Molly wasn't sure Sherlock COULD handle it. Even if he must. If he'd gone centuries without this, then no doubt he would take to it like a fly to flame. This was just a bad situation. Molly looked down and away. "Maybe you could try it with him. A relationship in the human way. Everything sinful can stay tucked away, secret, and he never has to know." At least then he'd have SOMETHING of John, to keep himself from going mad.

Sherlock shook his head sharply. "No. Assuming he would even accept, how could I initiate things when I would be able to feel how he reacts to everything? It would be manipulation of the highest degree." He stood from his leaning position against the desk and began pacing back and forth, ignoring for the moment Molly's worried eyes tracking him. He needed to think. Sherlock still had no idea about how he was going to deal with this situation. "I think...It will be best if we just remain flatmates. I will continue to treat him as such and that will be that. I'll have to put up with the bond. It won't be that hard once it settles. Everything but the jealousy and sexual aspects of it will be manageable. And should he bring women back to the flat I'll just leave." Hopefully, he added mentally.

Molly frowned at him. "You can't leave though, Sherlock. You can feel his feelings. You don't think that being far from him will stop that, do you?" Even just then, John's awkward, surprised, and ultimately pleasant feelings of meeting Greg Lestrade were buzzing in Sherlock's head. If Sherlock left John with a woman, he'd still be there, in John's most intimate place, feeling the whirlwind of strong emotions that corresponded with sex. Molly sighed softly. "What about you? You're a... well, a freak, vampire or not... But you deserve happiness too. If he's willing to give it to you on his own terms, you should accept. "     She paused. “For all you know, the bond could make you the most wonderful human lover he's ever had, and he never needs to know about the black mark on his person."




Her completely true words and the emotions swirling in the back of Sherlock's head caused him to explode. "I know!" He exclaimed, throwing his hands up in the air, once again grinding his teeth. He snapped them at her using the term "freak". He whirled back around. "But I am not a human, Molly. I cannot be a human lover of his. I cannot be any form of his lover! You don't understand. The bond doesn't just want sex-" He cut himself off and spun around again, biting off the words he had been about to say. No, the bond wasn't about sex. That was important, but it was not the reason behind it. The bond craved love. Mutual, deep love. And he knew that was something no one would ever bestow upon Sherlock Holmes.

Molly closed her eyes at Sherlock's defeat. She knew as well as he did how unlikely it was that anyone would feel that way about him, especially someone as allegedly perfect as John. "I'm sorry." She said, really meaning it. She didn't want her friend to suffer the way Sherlock was suffering. "So…what are you going to do? Just soldier on and pretend it doesn't exist?" Why did she think that would be the death of him? Why did she doubt his ability to keep from breaking down and doing... well, something, within the week? It had only taken two days to fall head over heels in love. Across town, Lestrade told a joke about why he was at John's flat, how Sherlock's request was just too bizarre to pass up. John felt happy and comfortable. Then as they began working, moving boxes, and John felt easy, perfect camaraderie with the DI. Greg lifted something particularly heavy, and John watched him and felt a flash of desire. He wasn't really interested, but Greg was good looking and had a capable, gorgeous body. He couldn't help but appreciate it.

Sherlock snarled suddenly, a loud and completely animalistic noise, and the fangs shot out before he could stop them. "Fuck!" He hissed in agitation. John and Lestrade. Lestrade. Desire. John. Rage. His fingers curled in to claws at the all-consuming urge to find Lestrade and defend what was rightly Sherlock's. How dare John. Mine, his brain whispered. Mine. A small part of Sherlock's brain was howling that John was not his and never would be, and that he needed to calm down. The much larger bonded-vampire part told it to shove off

The desire was gone as quickly as it came, replaced by the pleasantries of working with someone, and the mild anxieties of moving and maneuvering on his leg. John thought Lestrade was attractive, but didn't want anything from the man. Molly was terrified by Sherlock's reaction. What was going on? "Sherlock, what's happening?" She asked, stupidly reaching towards him and walking closer, hoping things were alright and she could help.

Sherlock's hand moved in a blur to snatch Molly's at the wrist. His eyes were screwed tight and his breathing was harsh. "I cannot stay here. I must go. I have to...to be there." He let go of her wrist and made his way to the exit. The rage was dimming. That small little flash of desire was enough to set him off like this?  It was worse than he'd thought. He paused and glanced back. "Thank you, Molly."  And then he was gone, coat swishing.

Sherlock was gone before Molly could even offer him a ride. She stared after him and then sighed softly, turning around and picking up Jennifer's hand, patting it softly. "Don't worry. He'll figure it out. He's Sherlock Holmes. He always does." And it was true...But how hurt would he and his John Watson be by the time he did? 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I seem to have a bit of a thing for sexually objectifying Sherlock. Whoops. But, uh. There's more plotty bits here at the end? YAY?

Meanwhile, at John's old flat, a small, tired, and quite frankly depressing little place, things were going smoothly. Boxes were being packed into a small moving truck (John really did not have much) and John hadn't injured himself yet. Greg had been a big help, and he and John were forming a budding friendship.

Sherlock arrived at John's little flat in record time. A glamoured taxi driver can do that. He felt a bit like that had been too extreme, but the animal part of his brain was still shrieking at him to get to John as soon as possible, despite the fact that the flash of desire had long since faded. Coping this was much harder than he thought it'd be. If Sherlock is not careful he may find himself hating John simply for being the reason for this, for the loss of control. It there was one thing Sherlock hated more than almost anything, it was the loss of his control over things. He swept up to the flat and through the door like a dancer in his haste. "Ah, Lestrade," He said, surprising the two men, "I see you've gotten started without me. Sorry, Molly wouldn't just let me leave."

 John actually jumped as Sherlock banged into his flat. "Jesus Sherlock!" Lestrade said, frowning at him. "What are you, a bloody ninja? You didn't make a sound on those steps!" John turned around to look at him, and he saw the clothes he was wearing beneath the coat, a nice, casual dress shirt and a pair of -fuck, fucking fantastic- jeans. This time the flash of desire was a bit more intense, and clearly directed at Sherlock. John took a long moment to find his tongue, looking up from Sherlock's splendid body and up to his eyes. He frowned with vague displeasure. "So, what, Sherlock? You ask Lestrade to come over and do all of your work for you?" Not that John didn't appreciate the D.I.'s help, but he had sort have been looking forward to spending time with Sherlock.

Sherlock's mouth dropped ever so slightly from the rush of desire, not enough for the other two men to notice. The raging storm of his emotions was placated and settled down suddenly, leaving him feeling rather empty and dull. How unsettling. "It is not my fault you're particularly unobservant, Lestrade." He said before focusing on John. "I apologized once. Molly does love to talk." He glanced him over subtly, taking in any changes from when he'd last seen him. Nothing major. "I came as soon as possible." He shrugged the coat from his shoulders, threw it across a chair, and began rolling the sleeves of his silky shirt up around his upper arm.

John gave him another long look over. He seemed as aloof as he'd ever been, but John had a nagging at the back of his head that something was wrong. Well, Sherlock seemed completely fine, so..."Well, as long as you came here ready to help. Many hands make light work." His disapproval became a small smile. He really was glad that Sherlock was there, late or not.  He supposed it was best to remember this habit of his new flatmate's, though. Utter lack of punctuality. John gave Sherlock a rundown of everything that had to be moved, before picking up a large box in one arm and fortifying himself on his cane for the walk downstairs.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed at the cane in utter distaste. I am going to render you pointless, he thought. One way or another. He wouldn't allow John to wander around with the limp when it was such an easy fix. Perhaps this time there would be no knife wounds involved, however. That would be for the best. He shook his head, a small, real smile forming on his lips that Greg no doubt noticed but Sherlock for once thought nothing about, and bent down to pick up a box that would have been shockingly heavy for a single human man. He grunted a bit for show before hauling it up.

Lestrade raised his eyebrows. Actual smiles. Offering his help with something mundane. Where was Sherlock Holmes, and who was the man who stood in his place? Whoever this John fellow was, he must be great in the sack for Sherlock to get so damn besotted. John and Lestrade each gave him a quick glance, clearly impressed by his hauling capabilities. He really was quite strong for such a slight man. Greg took up some of his own luggage, and the three of them began to work. After the work that John and Lestrade had already done, and with three of them, it only took a few trips. When they were done, they took a moment to rest up in the big, empty flat. Sherlock could feel John's satisfaction flying off of him in waves.

Sherlock glanced around the flat, feeling ridiculously gleeful. It was done. John was officially moved out and would be calling 221B his home. That pleased Sherlock, and he honestly could not tell if it was because of the bond or just because of him. Either way, his mood was high. "Well!" He clapped his hands, drawing Greg and John's attention. "That was quite simple. Shall we lug it back to Baker Street now, then? I must admit to not being used to this whole moving process. I have always had people doing it for me." Even when he moved to Baker Street, there had been several movers taking care of things in a quiet, unobtrusive manner that made Sherlock believe Mrs. Hudson wasn't even aware of them.

John took a long look at Lestrade. "Well, I was thinking that we could get some dinner first." He said with a hint of hesitance in his voice. John had originally wanted to have dinner with Sherlock, but truth be told Greg had done quite a bit of work, and it just wouldn't be on not to invite the D.I. as well. Lestrade caught his eye and though he didn't quite understand what John was thinking, he knew he didn't want to be the third wheel here, between the Consulting Detective and his new house bunny. "Thanks for the offer, but really should head back to the Yard to get some paperwork done. Four serial suicides and all." Sherlock could feel unexplained relief from John.

Sherlock tipped his head to the side slightly, wondering at John's feeling of relief. He nodded to Greg. "Yes, I'll look in to those soon. The last left a note, yes? Very interesting. John and I will see the body later." He included the other man without a thought. John was going to come with him. That was just the way it would be, from now on. He knew this for a fact. "Dinner, then? I know the owner of a rather nice Italian place, Angelo's. You are a fan of pastas." He said this not as a question but of a statement of a fact as he turned from Greg to look at John. Feeling John's contentment and satisfaction was making Sherlock feel giddy.

John heard that he was going with Sherlock, and he felt a little flutter in his chest. Was that the way it would be from then on? Sherlock letting him come along? Him being Sherlock's assistant, or partner, even? John truly wasn't picky. He knew he couldn't match Sherlock's mind, but he did have skills and talents of his own. Even if he couldn't exactly run anywhere he was still pretty smart, and he was still a crack shot. With a little more confidence than the previous night, he knew that if Sherlock wanted him there, he'd find a way to be helpful.  John blinked, but he was getting used to it. Surely there was something in the contents of his belongings or a small stain from sauce on a piece of clothing, somewhere. "Sure, sounds good to me." He said. Greg took his leave with amiable farewells to John and Sherlock, and the two flatmates were left alone. "Well, shall we?" John asked, a small but oh so sincere smile on his face, and only for Sherlock.

Sherlock nodded and motioned for John to leave first, trying to hide his confusion over the emotions he was feeling from John. They made no sense to him. It was simply dinner, why was John so excited? He thought about asking but immediately discarded the idea. There would be no way of explaining how he knew how John was feeling. Instead he lifted a hand to call a cab and unobtrusively eyed John up. The bond seemed the most calm when they were together, he noted.

John was excited because he was having dinner with an attractive, interesting man. That wasn't such a terribly difficult thing to understand, was it? Not to mention that Sherlock had shown interest in John. Maybe not romantically, but, well, at all. He wanted John by his side, to work with him, and that was plenty for John. He just wanted to know if, maybe... Sherlock would be interested in more than that. He wouldn't push it. For now he just wanted to get to know his new flatmate a little better, and maybe enjoy staring at him for a bit with a flawless excuse like dinner. John accepted the offer to go first for what it was, a courtesy, but didn't realize how prominent it actually was, seeing as Sherlock wasn't the kind of person who waited for people. Once in the cab and on his way to Angelo's, John said, "So...You said I was coming with your to look at the fourth serial suicide?" He asked, just for something to talk about.

Sherlock interrupted his ogling to nod. "Yes. Unless you would rather not?" He asked, suddenly unsure. Had erasing his memories somehow changed something? "I could use your skills as a trained medical professional. If you would rather not, I can muddle along, I'm sure." He glanced out the window to measure their distance. Angelo's was not that far off, thankfully. Sherlock was beginning to feel a bit hungry, and sitting this close in such a confined space was doing nothing to help him forget that.

John shook his head instantly. "No, I'd love to come along, if you think I can be useful. You already know that I'm an adrenaline junkie." He blushed a little. He knew that his desperate yearning for danger was not exactly flattering. In fact, it was a major flaw. "Really, I'd love to go to any crime scene you see it fit to invite me to. I'm rather in love with the idea, actually." He sobered for a moment, and then said quietly, "Anything that will get me out of spending my day watching telly and pining for Afghanistan, of all places... I'd be grateful for."

Sherlock smiled slightly, which he knew was a ridiculous reaction to someone telling you they longed for war, but it was such a lovely answer. Eventually Sherlock would get a hold of this bond, and eventually they could do this for as long as possible. John could live off of crime scenes, if Sherlock had his way. Eventually John would age and Sherlock would not, and he would have to leave, but for now it was perfect. "You are free to come for as long as you like." He said, pleased that the emotion he was feeling was completely clear from his voice. It would not do for John to know how obviously obsessed he was with him. Sherlock leapt lithely out of the car as it came to a stop, handing the correct amount of cash to the cabbie without another glance back.

John levered himself out of the car after him, frowning when Sherlock paid the cabbie. He'd wanted to pay. He was taking Sherlock out, after all, and even if his income from his pension and hours at the clinic was thin, this he could pay for. Instead he just followed him in, and neither of them spared a second look at the cabbie, whose light colored eyes flashed from under his cap. Sherlock was not waiting for him this time and John had an inkling that this was how it would usually be, Sherlock storming around and John hobbling from behind.  John couldn't explain how grateful he was, but he wanted to thank Sherlock over and over again for what he was doing for him.

Sherlock blew through the door like he owned the place, selecting a table that all but had "FOR SHERLOCK" marked in to it by Angelo. He tossed the coat on to the back of the chair and once more rolled up his sleeves so that he would not be hot in the warm restaurant. He snagged a waitress and ordered a nice bottle of wine, all before John had made it through the door. He would not be eating, but a glass of red wine might help him forget that he'd like to lung across the table and latch on to John's throat. Well, not really, but Sherlock could pretend it would.

Angelo swept on forward to greet John as he got to his seat, taking away the reserved card from the table and getting out a pad to write John's order. It being an Italian restaurant, John didn't even have to look at the menu before ordering linguini. "Right away. Anything for my Sherlock and his date! I'll go get a candle- It will be more romantic." And then Angelo was away. John blushed and said nothing. After all...This was a date, to him. Even if it wasn't officially so, even though Sherlock almost certainly didn't think that way. "Do you really eat this little? You haven't had anything today." He said, with a frown. "No wonder you're so scrawny." He said with a bright smile. Sherlock could feel a flutter of happy nervousness from John.

Sherlock turned from where he had been examining the couple next to them - she was cheating on him with the waiter, but that was quite alright because so was the man - to stare at John, the emotions catching him entirely by surprise. The happiness Sherlock could understand a bit. Dinner after working hard always made people happy. But what was the nervousness? And Sherlock had expected John to protest that he was not, in fact, Sherlock's date and that they did not need a candle. Damn social intricacies. Sherlock could solve any form of murder but he would always be caught flat footed at trying to understand human interaction.

It wasn't dinner that was making John happy- or, at least, it wouldn't be until it arrived, at least, if it was as good as Sherlock seemed to think it was. It was Sherlock, being there. John followed Sherlock's eyes to the couple he was watching, and frowned. Maybe Sherlock had a girlfriend of his own that he'd rather be with right then, even if he did enjoy John's company. "Or maybe you only like your food homemade. Maybe you have a girlfriend that feeds you up." John smiled like it was just a simple joke between men, but he hoped rather dearly that that wasn't the case.

Sherlock snorted. "Not really my area, no," He said, repeating the same words as the last time they had had this conversation. "Not my area at all." He stared intently in to John's eyes for a moment before going back to reading the other customers, almost as if he were embarrassed to be admitting that aloud, even if it had been nothing definite. "I am simply not hungry often. Ah, Angelo, the wine. Thank you." Angelo grinned, placing the candle between them on the table and showing a full bottle of expensive red wine before popping it open and pouring two glasses. "On the house! Anything for Sherlock and his date." He winked at John and swept off back to the kitchen before either man could say anything else. Sherlock picked his up, fingers curved and cupping the glass delicately in long, spidery fingers as he swirled it around, watching the red liquid and attempting to distract himself from the scent of the rest of the patrons.

John didn't comment the second time Angelo said it either, just smiled and thanked the man. If Sherlock hadn't been so close to John, the spike of glee that John felt in his chest might have been more than just a whisper. "Not hungry often is like not eating breakfast and having a light lunch. Not eating all day long isn’t “not hungry often”.” John frowned, and lowered his voice a bit. "Do you have an eating disorder, Sherlock? You have a damned good body but it's not worth your health. I can get you help if you need it, and anonymously." John looked and felt rather worried on Sherlock's behalf.

Sherlock jerked his head back, eyes wide. He had had people notice his lack of appetite before, it was bound to be noticed at least once over the years, but he had never had anyone seem genuinely concerned or ask him if he had an eating disorder. "No! Goodness, no." Sherlock definitely did not want a doctor to worry about this. He would not stop. Sherlock felt a bit of warmth at John's inadvertent compliment to his body, which was odd, as Sherlock was complimented on it all the time and it never seemed important then. "I eat, John. It's just far less than the average person. I am perfectly healthy, I assure you." Again, he felt an odd warmth that John was so genuinely concerned for him.

John sat back and gave him a little frown, seeming unconvinced, but he blushed brightly, thinking that he'd obviously jumped the gun, and asked too personal a question. "Sorry for my, er...Assumption." He said, truly a little mortified by how quick his mind had gone there. Well, he was a doctor, after all. He was just looking out for Sherlock's safety. He cleared his throat. "Well, if you don't eat at least something every day I'll make you." He said, with a frown. "I won't let you literally starved yourself. And wine doesn't count. You should order something. I'm sure Angelo would be over the moon. Just an appetizer, is all. Or, here." He pushed the basket of fresh sliced bread to Sherlock. "For goodness sake just eat something."

Sherlock sighed, thoroughly put out but willing to humor John just this once. "Fine." He didn't mind the question, nor did he believe it was too personal. He was just caught off guard. "Fine, I will eat something, if it will stop your worrying." He reached in to the basket and pulled out a breadstick, taking a slow bite from it, his distaste plain on his face. He was unaware of the fact that in his hesitation, his lips were wrapped rather obscenely around the long bread stick.

John watched him, at first relieved and feeling a bit of triumph, but the moment Sherlock's mouth took the breadstick inside and lingered there, John had a bright and unmistakable flash of pleasure. Fuck, his lips were PERFECT, and John blushed right down his neck at the sight of him. He hadn't meant to do that, certainly.

Sherlock blinked and bit hard in to the bread. His eyes traveled hastily up to John's from where they had been staring moodily at the basket. That was unmistakable. Even he, with his inability to understand social cues, would know what that rush of pleasure was. His eyes glanced down to the breadstick in his mouth, then back to John, and he awkwardly popped the bread out of his mouth with an even more awkward attempt at clearing his throat. Well. He was absolute pants at these sorts of things. Unless someone was bleeding, then he was some kind of sexually possessed creature. Lovely, he thought bitterly.

John's eyes dropped immediately, and he began to stutter nervously. "Sorry, didn't mean to stare, I just..." He cleared his throat as well, because they both knew what had just happened, and he'd like to put it behind them, thank you very much.  It wasn't exactly flattering, that, being found watching Sherlock practically fellate his breadstick. He changed the subject with the first thing that came to his mind, which of course, was disastrous. "So, if girlfriends aren’t really your area... Do you have a boyfriend, then?" Of course he did. How could he not with cock sucking lips like those? John knew that there were tons of men who would surely put up with Sherlock's less than stellar personality for that.

Sherlock found himself wanting to pop the breadstick back in his mouth just to feel the rush of John's pleasure again. The frightening part was that he could not tell if that was the bond talking or just him. "No," He answered, once more glancing away to read the lives of the people around them. "I quickly disabuse any who make the attempt. Being fit is one thing, but the moment I begin speaking, they decide it is not worth the time." He smirked, remembering several notable accounts that had ended in supreme amusement for him.

John sort of wanted him to do it again too. Only then to actually take a bite and eat and swallow it. John saw Sherlock smirking, and wondered if he really liked being single, if he drove them off on purpose. Maybe, or maybe not. John wondered if it was a good time to offer, seeing as he had already decided that Sherlock was worth the time, and without even the promise of sex. He decided that perhaps subtle would be the way to go, and he replied softly, "I think I can see when they're all coming from, even if I don't personally agree." He admitted.

Sherlock licked his lips. John was making this rather harder than it had to be. How was Sherlock to ignore the warm, tingly bond, when John kept saying things like that? "Ah, but give me time, and I shall have you agreeing with them." He smiled a bit, self deprecating. Sherlock glanced up at Angelo as he presented John with his food. "Ah, it looks fantastic as always, Angelo." He said. The big man clapped him on the shoulder. "Of course! Nothing but the best. You just tell me if you want anything, eh, Sherlock?" Sherlock nodded and the man wandered off after throwing yet another wink at John.

John couldn't smile at that one. Was Sherlock so used to driving people away that he thought John would just follow the rest of them? Just up and realize one day that Sherlock was a tosser and leave? He'd signed the lease agreement. He planned to stay. Sherlock could be a git, but John didn't think he ever really meant any harm with his deductions. Er, at least not when the person didn't deserve it. Usually. John didn't want to let Sherlock think that he was going to have everyone run from him when it simply wasn't true. "Challenge accepted, then." He said with determination plain across his face and in Sherlock's head. He wasn't going to just up and decide that Sherlock wasn't worth the bother.

Sherlock chuckled, once again feeling John's determination. It was one of the more pleasant things to feel. It underlined nearly everything he did. "Ah." He said simply, just barely a sound of his dubious acknowledgement. Sherlock picked up the abandoned breadstick and began nibbling on the end again. Bah. He didn't want this dull food, he wanted the liquid rushing through John's veins. Right now he could all but see it pulsing in his throat...calling to him...Whoops. He had begun staring at John with something akin to pure hunger. He must be a bit more careful with that. Hopefully John hadn't noticed.

He hadn't. He'd have needed to be looking for it. What he did notice was that Sherlock was still abso-fucking-lutely sexy as hell, and wouldn't it be great to have a nice shag for the first time in ever, and sooner rather than later? Only, of course, if Sherlock was willing. But John set that aside. That was a fantastic way to make the rest of their living together and working together impossibly awkward. "I'm warning you, I doubt that day will ever come. I just don't want you to be disappointed when I decide you're good enough to be around."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and laughed softly. "Whoever would be disappointed at you sticking around?" He asked, not even realizing how nice his comment could be seen as. It was another of those things that he saw and stated because it was obvious. Who wouldn't want John Watson around? He licked his lips again, cleaning the annoying crumbs of bread from them. "You are welcome as long as you'd like." He said, once again stating what he saw as obvious and what others would probably think of as sappy. Well...considering Sherlock's recent emotions, perhaps for once it really was sappy.

John furrowed his eyebrows, and then looked down. Plenty of people would. His family, first of all, who he had thoroughly disappointed by joining the army in the first place. And then there was, well, everyone who had ever thought him a war hero just to find him a bitter but pleasant man who did not deserve to be on any pedestals. It was good that Sherlock wanted him to stick around, but Sherlock was really more of an exception to the rule. John would take advantage of that, being with Sherlock and soaking up what excitement he could while he could. "What I meant was, I hope you won't be disappointed when your predictions about me realizing you're a prick like the rest of them and leaving are incorrect." He said, and then lifted his eyes to look into Sherlock's. "I don't think I'm ever going to not want to be with you." He said, intending it without the implied deeper meaning. "You and your cases...I hope that is what will make life worth living."

Sherlock's hand twitched on the top of the table. He knew what John meant. Sherlock's brain, however, liked to seize upon the idea that John /had/ meant it in the deeper meaning. Sherlock didn't want to admit that, because then he might be forced to admit that he wanted it. "Either way," He said, attempting to distract himself, "You are welcome as long as you'd like. If you can put up with Anderson and Donovan, you are more than welcome to. As I said, a doctor would be very handy indeed at a crime scene." Sherlock did not believe John to be a disappointment in anyway, and he would eviscerate anyone who would suggest it. Happily. He always did like showing people their own stupidity.

John raised an eyebrow. Anderson and Donovan? Two people he'd never met. "If you don't drive me away, I highly doubt they will." He said, matter of fact. He relaxed back in the booth a little, now enjoying his food. As he did so, his leg brushed against Sherlock's under the table. That hadn't exactly been intentional, but now that his leg was there he couldn't deny that it was comfortable. Instead of moving his leg away, he left it pressed warm against Sherlock's, where John fancied it out to be more often. "I'll strive to be handy, then." John said with a bit of a cheesy grin. "The food is excellent , by the way.  Would you like to try it?" He pushes the plate an inch closer to Sherlock, not expecting him to eat, but thinking that maybe he might want to taste.

Sherlock sighed in exasperation - both at the offer of food and at the casual touch. This man was going to be the death of him. Sherlock was completely relaxed for the first time in a while; the wine mixed with the warmth radiating off of John. With a very deft motion he plucked the fork from John's fingers, stabbed in to the pasta, spun the fork, and shoved the mass in to his mouth. His lips pulled along the metal as he dragged the food off. "There. Are you quite satisfied now?" He said, sitting the fork back down on to John's plate. Best to prove that he would eat at least something. It wasn't that he couldn't, it just did nothing for his appetite, since he lived mostly off of blood.

 John's eyes once more fell perfectly to Sherlock's lips. Oh. So that had been a bad idea after all. His lips weren't any less sexual when they weren't around a phallic shaped object, it seemed.  John tried to ignore the stirring of interest in his belly, because he knew that it would not be useful, at least not tonight. That was easier said than done, and the most John could do was thank heavens that he didn't have an inconvenient stiffy. "I was just offering for you to taste, is all." He said, setting his jaw in what could almost be called a pout. "When I'm force feeding you, you'll know.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Are you going to hold me down and force food past my lips? I believe it would be less of a bother to actually eat, then." Sherlock tried very, very hard to ignore just how much he would like it if John held him down. Those thoughts were hardly appropriate for dinner, and yet he couldn't stop thinking them. His cheeks became dusted with a bit of pink that he hoped would go unnoticed in the candle light. But John's face was in an honest to god pout, and a man of his age should not be so adorable when doing that. It was doing nothing to help with his ridiculous blush.

John's blush became an order of magnitude darker as the thought of him holding Sherlock down in any context want through his mind. Of course in the best of situations, they were both naked, of course. Him shoving anything past Sherlock's lips was also quite the idea to grapple with. The question was, what exactly did he mean it would be less of a bother? Would it be less of a bother to just eat so John didn't have to heckle him, or would it be less of a bother to have to eat if he had John straddling him, bare knees on bare hips and hands on shoulders, feeding him with his own mouth? John shuddered and pulled his leg away from Sherlock's, not visibly affected, but definitely feeling so. "Will if I have to." John said, voice a bit tight. "Otherwise you'll just wither away."

Sherlock's mouth went dry. He could feel that. Oh, how he could feel that, even if John showed no outward signs of desire. He himself wasn't quite sure which way he had meant his statement, but now with John's desire running parallel with his own, all he could think of were images of John using his army training to force him down in to submission, shoving bits of fruits and other foods in to Sherlock's mouth with his tongue. Sherlock was certain his face was now a lovely shade of red that even the soft lighting in the place could not hide. Very, very inappropriate, he thought to himself. "I have managed not to wither away so far. I believe I will live, even if you do not force feed me, John."

John glanced up to see that Sherlock had a bit of red on his face as well. Had he cottoned on to the true nature of the conversation, or was it just the wine? It seemed like Sherlock would be the kind of man who could hold his alcohol. John was half inclined to say 'what a shame, that.' But he knew that would be inappropriate. "Um, yes. Well...Just take care of yourself, alright? You seem to have enough of a dangerous life as it is. You certainly don't need to be blatantly ignoring your body while you're at it. Never know when you'll collapse at an inopportune time. Like when there are bodies to be inspected, or, I suspect, criminals shooting at you."  John tried to hide his embarrassment by paying very close attention to his meal. Needless to say, Sherlock had ruined the triumph of not having a humiliating erection in a restaurant.  John sipped at his wine, hoping it would mute his sex drive a bit.

Sherlock crossed his legs, attempting in vain to fight off his own humiliating erection. This was honestly the first time he could remember falling prey to such things in a public place like this. What was John doing to him? "Really, John. Do I look like the type of person who does not take care of themself?" He asked, leaning back and spreading his arms slightly in a "look" gesture.

John raised a single eyebrow at him. Well, no. He looked clean and crisp and proper, except for perhaps his hair, which to be honest John wouldn't have even tried to make behave. He'd kept his military-short haircut for a reason. John tried not to remember the horrendous afro he'd had in college. Then again, Sherlock also looked gaunt and underfed and pale and when he'd met him in St. Barts, he'd even seemed tired, like he was drained of all energy and working on pure brain power. John took a little longer than necessary to look Sherlock over, which didn't help. John was smart, had to be to be a doctor, but that didn't mean he was wise.

That was probably a stupid move, wasn't it, inviting John to stare at him? Sherlock sighed mentally. They were doomed. It was getting harder and harder to resist lunging across the table, decency be damned, and latching on to John. And by this point, Sherlock wasn't even sure if it would be his lips or his teeth that would do the work should he cave to his desires. He crossed his arms hastily over his chest. John really needed to be the responsible one in this situation. Sherlock wasn't sure he'd be able to resist offering...something, by the end of this night. John needed to shoot him down if that happened. Sherlock's head was beginning to buzz pleasantly from the expensive wine and the feelings in his head.

John wasn't exactly going to pass up anything if Sherlock offered it. What was a bigger question was if John was going to proposition Sherlock first or not.  He wasn't sure it was a good idea, and in fact, he thought he might be letting things go to fast. How many stories had he heard where two people got into a sexual relationship immediately and any other relationship they had suffered for it? He'd dearly love to get his rocks off with this man, and his needy body said as much, but more than that he wanted an honest to god working relationship, and a friendship with him. He didn't want to fuck that up. John found himself entirely torn. Even though it was strange that someone like Sherlock would be sexually interested in him, John had an inkling that he was rom the blush on his face as they discussed. Perhaps if John knew that he'd be bedding a bloodsucking monster he'd have an easier time denying him.

Sherlock wanted a working relationship with John, and a friendship if it were possible. Friends were a foreign concept for the man, but he believed John would make a rather nice first attempt. Though he did have a bit of an inkling that friends were not supposed to want to fuck their friends senseless. Sherlock cleared his throat, setting aside his wine for the night. "Are you quite done, then?" He asked as he glanced down to look at John's plate. Angelo must have been psychic, for the instant Sherlock stopped talking he bustled over, proclaiming loudly about the quality of their deserts, and of course it would be free for Sherlock and his date! Sherlock glanced at John to see if he would be denying it this time. His brow furrowed. Had this been a date? Was that what this was? Suddenly John's relief at Lestrade not joining them made sense. His eyes widened and he shot a startled look at John. Oh. Well. That was interesting.

John declined dessert, but didn't deny Angelo's claim that he was Sherlock's date. He let Angelo take his plate, and then frowned as he realized that this was yet another thing he couldn't pay for, seeing as Angelo was dead set on letting Sherlock eat for free.  John caught Sherlock's wide eyed look and frowned at him, confused. What was he so surprised by? John finished his glass of wine while Angelo cleaned up. "Yes. Time to go unpack, then?" He asked, not sure he wanted to get up just yet, and thinking that it might not be a bad idea to go splash some cool water on his face in the loo before they went anywhere, because even the idea of Harry having hot dirty sex with Mrs. Hudson was not enough to cancel out the fact that Sherlock was really fucking attractive.

Sherlock stood, smoothing down the wrinkles that had annoyingly formed in his shirt and took a moment to unroll his cuffs again. "Yes. Without Lestrade it will take us slightly longer to lug your things up to the flat, but I foresee we can get it done before the night is over." Sherlock, unlike John, was not human and had the ability to basically brow-beat his erection in to submission. It was painful. But it worked.

John didn't posess that ability, so he got up, cleverly keeping himself hidden behind his coat and managing not to be obvious, and excusing himself. Some more terrible thoughts and a refreshing splash of cold water helped, but not nearly as much as being far away from Sherlock Holmes. Just as he was etting to drying his hands, his mobile rang. the number was one he'd never seen before, but it was from the London area. He answered. "Um, hello?" The voice that answered him was a calm woman's voice. "Hello John." John could tell just from her voice that she was attractive. "Who is this?" He asked, curiously. "The man in the stall to your right is armed, John." She said, and instantly John was on guard. He glanced at the stall, and saw a pair of feet underneath. The man in the stall was still. Waiting. John looked around and saw a small security camera. What the hell? Who put a security camera in a bathroom!? "Who is this?!" He asked, this time not curious, but forceful. "Your belongings have already ben safely moved inside your new flat, and your flatmate is capable of taking care of himself. The back entrance through the kitchen will be cleared for you, and there is a car waiting for you. I'm sure you understand your situation." The woman hung up on him. What the HELL!? John sighed and ran his hand through his hair. Shit, how did he get into this mess? What had he DONE!? "Bugger." He said, though the rush of adrenaline was coursing through him deliciously now. He took a deep breath, and went out the back entrance as the voice had suggested, eventually limping his way into the car.

Sherlock shrugged on his coat and stepped out in to the night air, letting it calm his mind. Meanwhile, a woman stepped out of the car, never once glancing up from the Blackberry in her hand. "Hello, John," She said, still not looking. "Please get it." She held the door open with one hand and began to completely ignore him, as if John wasn't even there. Out front Sherlock frowned, eyes narrowing, as he picked up on John's alarm and the rush of danger. Just as he was about to dart back in to Angelo's, his mobile rang with a custom ringtone he dreaded hearing every time. "Mycroft," He snapped in to the mic once he'd pressed Enter. "What have you done with John?" There was a smug chuckle on the other end. Sherlock's hand curled dangerously around the plastic phone.

"I am simply borrowing him for a bit, Sherlock. I will bring him back in one piece," There was a pause as the voice on the other line drew out the dramatic moment. "Probably." Then the line went dead in Sherlock's ear. "Fuck!" He swore, spinning and punching the wall. He only just remembered to rein in his strength. Otherwise he might have broken the bricks.

John had known she was beautiful. He groaned, and got into the car. As he sat, his hands were perfectly still, no hint of his tremor now. "What is this?" He asked, though he had a feeling that  even asking was a waste of time. THey weren't planning on killing him, they'd moved his boxes. Or told him they had, anyway.  So what was this?  He gripped his cane tight, knowing that it was a worthwhile weapon in a jam. Not that he wanted to injure the woman who had joined him in the car and was still completely ignoring him. "We'll be there momentarily."

Mycroft smirked ever so slightly as the car pulled in to the warehouse. He was so looking forward to Sherlock's little pet. He'd looked up all his records already, of course, and knew him to be a competent doctor, at the least. He tapped the umbrella against the edge of his shoe while he waited for Anthea to step out with their prey. Back at Angelo's Sherlock decided to hail a cab and head home to wait. If Mycroft bit John or glamoured him, there would be hell to pay, but for the time being he could do nothing helpful.

John pulled himself out of the car, and set eyes on a dapper, intimidating man. He was rather tall. Not quite as much as Sherlock, but still rather close. He thought maybe he would answer some of John's questions, even if it was just by telling him what was going on. The warehouse was dark, but didn't seem to be filled with bombs or snipers. John kind of doubted that the place wasn't completely sincere, though. "So? What is this?" John asked the man, putting one hand on his hip. "It was in the middle of something, you know." In the middle of getting laid, the bastard.

Mycroft smirked even more, as if he knew just how John mentally ended that sentence. Which he did. "A warehouse. Obviously. Now, I would like to ask your intentions towards Sherlock Holmes, but," and here he paused to obviously look over John, "I believe I - and everyone in that restaurant - know. So, putting aside your less than noble intentions...I'd like to offer you a nominal amount of money for a rather small amount of information. On your new flatmate." He leaned casually against the umbrella, watching every little cue John gave away, even the ones he wasn't aware he was making.

John frowned. He wanted information? About Sherlock? Was this man his enemy? Well, it was certainly sinister enough, threatening him to get him there. John took a deep breath. He wouldn't be intimidated. He was Sherlock's friend. Sherlock, who was certainly flawed, but who had done nothing but help John over the course of their short lived acquaintance. He was nothing but good news to John, a new beginning. John was nothing if not loyal. "I refuse. I won't spy on him for you. I don't care WHO you are or what you know." Because the man was right. Of course he was right.

Mycroft smirked. Interesting. He had thought John might take the money. Retired war vets with limps didn't have much of it, and that he would turn it down immediately after two days...Interesting. "I see your therapist was wrong. Clearly you do not have trust issues - or perhaps Sherlock is special?" He waited for John's reaction at his knowledge. They were always so amusing when they didn't know he knew everything. "It really is in your best interesting to stay away from him, then, if you will not agree to pass me information. Sherlock Holmes is a dangerous man, Doctor Watson. More dangerous than you can possibly know." But wait...there was something Mycroft was sensing...Something that should not have been lurking around the wholly human John. It was almost as if Sherlock's essence was mixing with John's. But surely that was impossible. Mycroft's mind raced through scenarios while outwardly he remained as calm and aloof as ever.

John winced at what Mycroft knew, but it wasn't such a huge surprise. He was Sherlock's...What? Enemy? It wasn't such a stretch to believe that he was just as annoyingly brilliant. Anyway, he was right. Sherlock was special. John built himself up, finding more courage to face the man in front of him. "I'm not going anywhere. Sherlock is my friend." He said, completely on the defensive, now standing straight backed and unafraid, eyes steely as they had been in the war. "I don't care how dangerous he is... And I don't care how dangerous you are."

Mycroft grinned this time instead of smirking, allowing the dull lights to glint off of his slightly longer than average canines. Ah, the man positively reeked with determination. But still, there was something else, something Mycroft had a feeling he should notice...And then it hit him. Somehow, Sherlock had bonded to this man. Mycroft wasn't as untrained as to allow his eyes to widen, but his shock was massive. That bloody idiot. "Sherlock Holmes will be the death of you one day, John Watson. Give it time." He was absolutely certain of this. Mycroft did not know how this had happened - yet - but he knew how it would end. Eventually it would be too much and Sherlock would snap. He would drain John dry. Or John would smother under the intensity of a vampire bond. Either way, Mycroft saw the future, and it was bleak.

John was stronger than either Mycroft or himself gave him credit for. He couldn't exactly survive being drained of blood, but he could stand to have Sherlock love him. It might be a little bit like not knowing when you were going to step on a bomb buried deep beneath the ground with every step on new terrain, or not knowing when you would next have to amputate the arm of someone who was not only a crack shot but a concert cellist, but John could deal with that. He'd spent the years he'd done that feeling more alive than ever, in fact. "I'm not afraid of death." John said, resolutely. He was afraid of wasting away...But dying wasn't the same as that.

Mycroft tipped his head to the side in a motion eerily similar to Sherlock. "Yes. That is obvious." He motioned to Anthea, who had yet to look up from the Blackberry. "Take him home, my dear. He will not listen to common sense, nor will he take any money for a service I could have done for free." He shook his head, half in pity and half in amusement. The poor man. He was interesting, and he smelled like he'd taste rather lovely, but Mycroft could just not see the appeal. Humans. Pah.

"Of course." She said, giving her own wide, pleasant smile, revealing her own slightly larger than average canines as well, She opened the door of the car and stepped aside, returning her attention to her blackberry. Oh Sherlock, funny little black sheep, had gotten himself a silly little pet and fancied him so much he thought it best to make him a lover. When would Sherlock learn that humans were not friends, they were food?  To be fair John Watson's smell was enticing, but he was soooo not her type. John grit his teeth. "So you brought me all the way over here, interrupted my night, just to tell me that my flatmate was dangerous? Thanks a lot for stating the obvious. I'm not an idiot, you know."

Mycroft chuckled. "Well now, I initially brought you here to offer you the money! Should you have taken it, I would have quietly disposed of you." The grin turned down right predatory. There was nothing overtly threatening in Mycroft's manner, but there was a glint to his eye that said he would have happily killed John tonight. Probably would have eaten him too, but there was no need for John to know that. "Enjoy the rest of your night, Doctor."

Anthea smiled again, behind her little screen. Mycroft did love his brother so. This was quite a vetting process just for an idiot human flatmate. Then again, if they got close enough that John learned Sherlock's secret, then John Watson could make quite a lot of problems for them. They needed to know that John was trustworthy enough to keep Sherlock's secrets. John felt cold wash over him. John had no doubt then that the man would have done it. But what was the motivation? To offering him money to spill Sherlock's secrets and then killing him for accepting? John wasn't ready to leave just yet. "You're _protecting_ him!?"

Mycroft raised an elegant eyebrow. "Of course I am. That is what elder brothers do, yes? Protect their idiot younger siblings? I have had to take care of several...distasteful people in the past, and it is simply more efficient to head them off like this." And despite letting him leave, Mycroft fully expected he would have to 'take care of' John as well. It was only a matter of time. Perhaps next week, perhaps in several years. Either John would find out Sherlock's secret, or Sherlock would snap. And then Mycroft would need to clean it up. Again. By this point he was quite exasperated with the whole thing. Humans, they were not worth the time.

John blinked. Elder brother? Hadn't seen that coming. Though now he looked at it it did make quite a lot of sense. They were shockingly similar. Both terribly pale, both piercing eyes and intimidating height. And just as Sherlock had said (though John, disconcertingly, couldn't quite remember when) he had a bit of a tummy on him. "That explains... quite a lot." John relaxed a fraction, though it was clear he was still VERY on guard. Just because he was Sherlock's brother didn't mean he was less dangerous. "I don't have any intention of harming him." He said, honestly, his determination now simply earnestness. "And I have every intention of being loyal, no matter what turn our relationship takes. What else do you need me to reassure you about? I'd rather not hurt his feelings and be assassinated for it."

Mycroft raised the other eyebrow, now slightly confused. This was definitely not the normal reaction. Not at all. Where was the defensiveness, the claims that he would do whatever he wanted? He could understand then, a bit, why Sherlock had taken an interest. "My, but you are quite loyal, aren't you?" He glanced to Anthea for a moment, checking to see if she was as amused by this as he was. "I need no reassurances, Doctor. Actions, as they say, most often speak louder than words. Stand by my brother or leave him now, I care not. Betray him, however, and you are not simply betraying Sherlock. You are betraying a Holmes and one of my kin." Best to lay the groundwork now, just in case John did find out about their little family problem. No need for silly threats. He would end John and that would be that.

John scowled. "I am many things, Mr.Holmes, but I'm not a Judas." He said, seeming legitimately offended. "Sherlock's already done so much for me that betraying him would be ungrateful." And John was definitely not that, either, any more than he was un-loyal. Annoyed by Mycroft's warning, John straightened again all the way. "I think I've already shown you that any worries about the strength of my allegiance are completely unfounded, so if you don't mind I think I'm going to get back to trying to shag your brother."

Mycroft scowled ever so slightly. "Really, Doctor, there is such a thing as _too much_ information. You can keep all attempts at bedding my oblivious brother to yourself." Once again he motioned for Anthea to ready the vehicle to leave. "Parting advice? Watch your back, Doctor. And welcome back to the war." He turned then, casually twirling the umbrella. Obviously Sherlock was not the only Holmes with a taste for the dramatic. Mycroft had to admit this was the most interesting event to happen with his brother in quite some time.

John pivoted on his good food and did the Watson-Waddle version of storming off and back into the car. "221B Baker Street." He told the driver as Anthea climbed in after him, clearly amused as well as clearly not paying attention or really giving a flying fuck. John fumed silently in the car as it pulled out. He'd watch his back alright, and Sherlock's, if only to prove to everyone around that he wasn't going anywhere, that he was committing to this, to Sherlock, come hell or high water, no matter how annoying or how dangerous Sherlock got. Luckily he'd be back to the flat soon and he could put this terrible meeting behind him.


	9. Chapter 9

Back at Baker Street, Sherlock paced across the floor. All he had had to go on was his knowledge of how Mycroft operated and the emotions running hard and thick in the back of his head. Sadly the intensity did not fade when John was decidedly far away. There went his idea of leaving the flat to escape when John brought back women to the flat. Sherlock had to pause for a moment to snarl at the idea. Calm, he told himself. He would need to learn to accept this. Simply because he moved in with Sherlock did not mean John would become celibate. It would happen eventually and Sherlock needed to prepare himself for it so that he did not accidently come back to himself to find that he'd gone on a murdering spree and killed John and his date. He dropped moodily in to the chair he already thought of as John's and inhaled deeply, attempting to calm the rioting of his thoughts.

Sherlock could feel as John's emotions shifted from fear to annoyance to anger, and before he knew it after that, he could hear John coming up the steps. John came in, grinding his teeth. "You could have told me that your brother was prone to abducting people you get close to and vetting them for their loyalty on pains of death. You might be glad to know that I passed with flying colors, and so I was allowed to come home without the body bag." He bustled around the kitchen, going right past Sherlock, and put on a kettle. He needed tea. And maybe something stronger, too.

Sherlock groaned and pressed a hand against his face. He fell back against the arm of the couch, kicking his feet up on the other. "I apologize. I had no idea Mycroft was even aware of you yet. I figured it would take him at least two more days to arrange a meeting. He's very...thorough." He paused, unsure if it was acceptable to ask. He knew the answer because of the link, but John didn't know he knew and thus asking would be a bit manipulative. Wouldn't it? Good god, he was going to drive himself insane, always wondering if everything he was doing was manipulative. "Are you alright? Did he have you harmed?"

John grunted. "I'm fine, if a bit angry, and understandably, I think. He didn't have me harmed, but he made it rather clear that he could harm me at the drop of a hat, which I didn't exactly appreciate." He stomped around some more, looking milk. There wasn't any. John tried to shake his head, tried to clear it all out. It didn't work. "He tried to get me to betray your trust for money, and told me afterwards that if I had taken the very large sum of money to spy on you, he'd have disposed of me. Then he let me knew you were dangerous and told me to stay away. Git." It was clear John was not a fan of Mycroft.

Sherlock hauled himself up to his feet, stalking quietly in to the kitchen to observe John and his rage. "I apologize," He said again, softer this time, as if he actually meant it. Asking forgiveness and saying sorry for things was not something Sherlock was used to. "Mycroft can be quite...dramatic, but he is, without a doubt, the most dangerous man you will ever meet." Sherlock stepped further in to the kitchen to stand at his full height, grabbing a bottle of scotch from the top cabinet. "This is all I have available, unfortunately." He could tell John needed a little something extra other than tea. Not that Sherlock blamed him. Any time he himself encountered Mycroft, he wanted to drown himself to oblivion.

John accepted it thankfully and poured himself some, sipping at it while he waited for the water to boil. "He's an insufferable know it all and he loves flaunting it. He thinks he's smarter than everyone around and that he can just snatch me up and do what he likes with me." He grumbled through the kitchen, straightening things and generally just being a nervous wreck. "That's only okay when you do it. Not him. I don't have to put up with him, no matter how dangerous he is." John REALLY didn't like Mycroft. It was like he was trying to one-up Sherlock, as big brothers tended to do. John didn't like it.

Sherlock's mouth ticked up in a smile. He shouldn't find John's rage so adorable. It was ridiculous. But he did, and the fact that Sherlock was somehow allowed to act like he did while Mycroft wasn't made something in his chest do a giddy little jump. "Yes. Quite the git, Mycroft. It rather runs in my family." Sherlock wondered at some way to placate John but could think of nothing. There had to be some way to calm him down. "Shall I finish your tea? You deserve to sit after dealing with Mycroft."

John still didn't know him well enough to know just how very out of character this was, so he just quietly accepted Sherlock's offer and sat right at the kitchen table, still wanting to talk to Sherlock. "I just... We were having a nice evening, weren't we? And he had to go and destroy it. It's almost like he did it on purpose." He mumbled, crossing his arms over the table and burying his face in them. Damn. He didn't know he'd been signing up for Sherlock’s crazy family as well as him. "You don't happen to have any other insane family members that will want to snatch me up and make sure I'm suitable to be your friend?"

"He probably did," Sherlock said with a very quiet chuckle. In one way he was thankful for Mycroft's sudden kidnapping. Who knew what Sherlock might have done later that night if it had gone on uninterrupted? He had to actually pause what he was doing with John's tea and look up for a moment to answer his question. Mycroft was the only close kin he had. Mummy had all but shunned him, and the extended family didn't even know he was in England, let alone sharing a flat with a human in London. They might all drop dead from horror. The silence stretched on longer than was probably appropriate to such a simple question. "No." He replied simply.

John felt the silence and couldn't help but feel like he'd accidentally stepped into some sore territory. "So, um...I take it you and your family don't exactly get on." He said, lifting his head to look at Sherlock. There was a story there, he was sure of it. John stayed quiet for another long moment before saying "Maybe having just one insane family member looking out for you isn't such a bad thing." John sat back and sighed. "Well, he doesn't need to. I have no intention of betraying you, whatever that means. I'm not the sort of man who screws the people who help him, or leave my friends in a bind because it suits me."

Sherlock laughed as he finished preparing John's tea. He plunked it down, exactly as John always took it, as he answered, "Get on? No, not exactly. And if we did, I would say we got on like a house on fire." He leaned against the opposite side of the table, arms crossed in front of him. His eyes narrowed, focused solely on John. "He said you would betray me?" Damn. Damn, damn, damn. Mycroft knew. Sherlock's only hope was that he did not run off to tell Mummy. She would kill him. She would kill him, bring him back from death, and then kill him again. His clan had considered it slumming when he stopped killing when he fed. If they knew he was BONDED to one...Good lord. "Well, it always feels good to get one up on my brother. I already knew you were not the sort to, as you say, screw with people." Sherlock decided to completely and utterly ignore how sexual the word 'screw' could seem. Instead he lifted his head in to the air as if he were looking down on Mycroft and plastered on an incredibly haughty expression. People were relaxed with humor, right?

John sipped his tea, not questioning that it was exactly the way he liked it. Of course Sherlock knew. John felt so pent up. He had to blow some steam off somehow. He had to do something other than just storm around like a child throwing a tantrum. Well, first he needed to finish his scotch. That was done in a moment's notice. Then he needed to release some of this frustration. He needed to punch something, or shoot something, or better yet, fuck sometime. He glanced up at Sherlock and then let out an honest to god laugh. Well, that would have been nice, wouldn't it? He had a feeling it wouldn't go so well right now.

Sherlock blinked in surprise at the laugh. It was a nice sound, but he was confused by it. He could sense John's feelings, not read his mind. The emotions were open to them, but he had to guess, had to piece together what caused them if he wanted to know, but any time he attempted to do that he was left with that dirty feeling again. "What?" He asked sharply. He eyed John up and down, slightly wary.

John took a minute to consider what he should tell Sherlock. He was worried about the same things as before, but... Well, at this point, why the fuck not? If homicidal brothers weren't going to fuck up their friendship, neither was mentioning sex. "I was hoping to get you in bed before too long, you know. Was unsure. Thought that it might ruin any kind of friendship we might be able to have, which I'll admit is more important to me, but... Well, circumstances make it a little ridiculous for me to be shy. I've already gotten the "break his trust and I'll murder you" speech, so no point in dancing around the issue."

Sherlock's jaw dropped. Actually dropped. He stared at John for a full minute before he sunk in to the chair opposite and dropped his head to his hands. "Good god, John, forget breaking my trust and fearing Mycroft. You are going to kill me." His arms dropped to the table, crossed, and he allowed his head to follow and rest on them. "No, no, lets mention your intentions of bedding me when I have been trying to resist slamming you against a wall all night. Yes. Very brilliant move." Sherlock said this bit almost to himself. How ludicrous! Another night, John's memories completely locked up, and still they were in the same situation. Still they were very obviously sexually attracted to each other. Is this hell? He wondered. That John was admitting to wanting him, but Sherlock must not make that step again. He would only have to glamour John again. Repeated use of glamours tended to cause the victim to...space out, would be the polite way of saying it.

John wasn't expecting this kind of a reaction from Sherlock, certainly. He had been expecting maybe getting a shy acceptance, or perhaps a smirk and a nod, or perhaps a complete dismissal, letting John know that he wasn’t interested in sex no matter how very flirty he was.  He wasn't expecting Sherlock to sink, prone, into a chair and hide his face so John couldn't see his expression. He certainly wasn't expecting Sherlock to tell him that he'd been trying to resist having sex with him that whole evening. "Fuck." He breathed, because the idea of that, not only of doing that, but of Sherlock wanting that badly for so long, was outrageously hot. It made his whole body shiver and flush with desire. "Did you really want to do that all night?" He asked breathlessly, then swallowed. “Well...? Do it." John said, enticing him, because he'd like more than anything to have sex right then, and the rougher the better.

Sherlock's fingers curled in to fists on the table. "I can't. I can't, and you are killing me. It would be a pleasurable way to go, though, won't it?" He babbled on, finally lifting his head. His cheeks were flushed a dull red as he imaged just what all things he'd like to do to John. But he couldn't, and he couldn't think of how to explain that to John. Sorry, but if I slept with you I may rip your throat open and drink until you were dry? Sorry, if I fucked you it might only make the bond worse on my end until I strangled anyone who so much as looked at you out of repressed desire and jealousy? Certainly couldn't say that. Sherlock was starting to feel a bit hysterical. "Fuck," He agreed, the curse foreign on his lips and so that much more rewarding.

John swallowed, could see that he was somehow freaking Sherlock out. So he wanted to (quite a bit, clearly) but he couldn't? John didn't want to make him uncomfortable, most of all. He stood up, straightened his not-revealing-at-all jumper, and poured Sherlock some tea of his own, before sitting back down. "Sorry. I didn't realize this would be, ah...a problem." He wanted to know why it was Sherlock couldn't fuck him against a wall, but he wouldn't ask him. He didn't want to pry, even if this was the perfect time. "I'll talk, if you want to. Thinking of some bad experiences? Took a vow of celibacy? Have a wife and kids I somehow completely missed?" John asked, guessing, and trying to lighten the mood.

Sherlock sighs, running a hand distractedly through his hair while the other picks up the tea. He downs half of it while it is still hot. "Yes, very bad experiences," He babbled, completely out of his depth. "Very bad. Not the time." Gods, but all he wanted to do was kiss the man senseless. There were times when Sherlock genuinely hated his nature, from the bottom of his cold dead heart, and right now was one of them. He stood from the chair. "John, look- I. I cannot." He glanced away. "I think I should go to bed." Sherlock took a step forward and swayed dangerously. Obviously the rush of his own emotions and panic was mixing with John's. It was simply too much for his body to handle at the moment.

John could see it, and he wanted to offer Sherlock a bit of comfort in whatever way he could. He stood up too, and stood right in front of Sherlock, taking in the pained expression on his face and smiling back softly, trying to be supportive. "Yes, maybe that is for the best." He said softly. But that didn't stop him from reaching up and tangling his fingers in the curls at the back of Sherlock's neck. The warm heel of his palm caressed Sherlock's throat unconsciously. "Don't worry about the sex, alright? Just relax, and we'll figure it out later."

Sherlock whimpered. He didn't even try to fight back the sound. The feeling of John's palm on his throat was just too much. If only John knew how sensitive that particular area was right now...He leaned unconsciously in to the touch, lidded eyes staring dazedly in to John's own. "Killing me," He reiterated softly, voice rough. Sherlock absently bit his lower lip, the canine sinking in ever so slightly since it was just a bit longer than the others. The pain of it did nothing to clear his fogged head.

John sighed softly and his smile just got wider. "Get some rest and I can kill you more in the morning, alright? Things will be clearer then." John hoped that Sherlock could figure out his issues and decide if he wanted to share with John, or keep it to himself, and whether or not they’d fuck before or after he shared, if they would at all. "Just try to calm down and sort out your thoughts." And with that he leaned up on his tip toes and murmured into Sherlock's mouth, "Goodnight, and feel better." before he pressed a soft, quick goodnight kiss to Sherlock's mouth and then let go of him, allowing him to leave for the safety of his bedroom.

The simple pressure of John's lips against his own snapped what little control he'd had left of his self-control. It really was quite shameful how little control he seemed to have around this man. He had gone centuries with willpower enough for any task, but you ask him to resist John Watson and he was completely useless. Sherlock's hand shot out, quick as lightning, to wrap around John's wrist. He gave it a very gentle tug, pulling John back until they were very nearly chest to chest. "You couldn't leave it be, could you?" Sherlock asked, voice low and rough and sounding like sin itself, a voice relatively unheard because of Sherlock's lack of sexual desire for others. John was special. He'd known that since the start. John got to hear Sherlock at his wits end, got to hear him all but moaning his words with his desire. Sherlock began backing the very startled man up until he had John pushed up flush between the hard wall and Sherlock's body, exactly where Sherlock had been imagining him ever since dinner. "I want you so badly it _burns_ ," He whispered in to John's ear. Sherlock smirked to feel John give a great full body shudder against him. He was aware of the effect of his voice, but he never gave much thought to it, much like his looks, but if it got him reactions like this then he would have to employ it more often. Sherlock planted a soft kiss just under the hollow of John's ear. "I cannot describe it, but I have wanted you ever since I saw you." Another soft kiss, this time along John's jaw. "And it is not even physical. That is the part I do not understand." And here he kissed John's throat, his tongue flicking out just a bit to let John feel it. It took great restraint to keep the fangs shortened. "I tried to resist. I really did. But it seems it is quite impossible." Finally, after what felt like years, he placed warm lips against John's own. He gently tipped John's head back, deepening the kiss from chaste to frankly obscene. If not for the fact that Sherlock was holding John up, he might have slid to the floor as his legs liquefied at the things Sherlock did with his tongue.

John had thought, as clearly bothered as Sherlock was, that a small kiss on the lips would send Sherlock to bed knowing that whatever reason he had for not fucking John was fine, because it was all fine, and that he could get some rest. He wasn't expecting Sherlock to grab him and do exactly what he'd said he was going to do. When he did, John knew that Sherlock was doing something that was, for some reason, wrong. John wanted to stop it, wanted to rip himself out of Sherlock's grip and leave the room until Sherlock was feeling better, but that was just not going to happen. Sherlock had him held tight, and his words were making John's head spin. His voice was almost hypnotic in that tone, telling John just how badly he wanted him. That wasn't to mention his body, which was now pressed completely flush to Sherlock's, all the way down. John was panting softly all through Sherlock's speech as his lips found their way down his jaw and over his neck- Fuck, for a simple kiss on the neck Sherlock had a lot ofintensity. And then, the kiss to the lips. Sherlock was kissing him as though his life depended on it. As thought kissing John was like a man dying of thirst being given a glass of water. John's eyes rolled back, how could he stop them? His gorgeous, outrageous flatmate was telling him that he was irresistible and trying to kiss him into a coma. He was doing rather well at it. John began to participate in this kiss, wrapping his free arm around Sherlock's neck to help keep himself up.  It took a long while to break out of the fog of it and realize that this was not what Sherlock wanted, not really. This, however fabulous, was wrong. With quite a bit of effort and regret, because Sherlock's tongue was the most amazing thing he'd ever encountered, John opened his eyes and met the hungriest silver gaze, and in a moment, everything snapped into place. John gasped as knowledge dawned in his eyes, and then he slumped completely, his body taking a moment to catch up with the sprint his mind was doing.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Plot and fluff AND a bit of angst. Clearly staples of this story. I hope people enjoy it as much as I did when I roleplayed it.

Sherlock pulled back immediately, slinking down to the floor with a lax John in his arms. He could certainly tell the difference between weakness caused by arousal and weakness caused by anything else. Sherlock's eyes widened in horror to see the complete knowledge in John's. No. This could not be happening. Where John's body went slack, Sherlock' tensed. Every muscle froze up, preparing him. For what, Sherlock wasn't entirely sure. He blamed the fight or flight reflex, he thought absently as he stared at the man he was holding. "John," He whispered, voice soft and full of regret, oh, so much regret. It was virtually unrecognizable from the voice of moments ago that was promising John infinite pleasure.

John was still fully conscious, but his breathing was harsh as his body tried to acclimate to the breaking of boundaries in his mind. When he looked back up at Sherlock, there was disgust on his face, the one expression Sherlock hoped to never ever see from him. It wasn't because of his race or even his personality, but because of what he'd done. "That's fucking rich, Sherlock." He said, voice raspy. "To get kidnapped by your brother to prove I won't betray YOUR trust." John was so angry that the obvious need of him that constantly affected Sherlock didn't matter to him a bit.

Sherlock flinched, hard, at the disgust and let go of John as if he had been burnt. He backed up and ended up falling to his hind end several feet away from John. "I'm sorry," He babbled, for once finding it exceedingly easy to apologize. He would apologize gladly, if only to this man, if only for this crime he had committed that he knew was wrong. "I had no choice, I couldn't let you remember, either way you'd hate me, I'm sorry." His nails dug in to his palms, pricking him, the pain barely distracting him from the rush of John's feelings. The disgust was like oil on his tongue, impossible to swallow and tasting foul. The anger was like a fire on his skin, unpleasant and harsh.

Well, clearly Sherlock knew that it wasn't okay. That ruled out that he was just enough of an idoit to make him forget.  He'd done it on purpose, knowing how wrong it was. But...Why? John wasn't going to beat around the bush. He straightened himself up against the wall, now that he was recovering, and began the inquisition. "Why? We were together and we were happy and you suddenly just freaked out. What didn't you want me to know? No lying. If you think you're going to even have the POSSIBILITY of me ever trusting you again, you're going to tell me everything." John didn't want to leave. And he wanted to trust Sherlock. He could deal with Sherlock being dangerous, could deal with him being a vampire, hoped he could even deal with whatever it was that had sethim off, but he needed to be able to trust Sherlock. He needed to know that Sherlock was as trustworthy and loyal as he was. John could remember now. Could remember everything that Sherlock had meant to him that night...Last night. He could remember that he'd thought he was falling in love with the man. John squeezed his eyes shut tight at that thought, because that was still there, revived, and would have been there anyway before long even if he'd never remembered. All Sherlock could feel from this line of thought was pain. John didn't want it to be this way.

Sherlock glanced up from where he had been contemplating the kitchen floor tile. There was even a possibility that John would trust him again? Sherlock had been certain, the moment he'd seen the knowledge in John's eyes, that John would repack up all his stuff and be out of there before the morning. His limbs twitched with John's pain. Sherlock felt his own disgust, now, that he had forced John through this. But he still didn't want to tell John what had happened. He knew he had to, but he didn't want to. This would surely be the bit that drove him away. Sherlock looked back at the floor, unable to speak this part while still staring in to John's eyes. "I bonded us. Accidently. I don't...I wasn't even aware that was possible between my kind and yours..." He swallowed, the sound clearly audible in the silence of the flat. The only other noises were the sounds of their breathing, John's slowly regulating and Sherlock's barely there. "It's for life. I can feel you, always, in the back of my head. Feel your emotions." Sherlock's nails accidently ripped the skin of his palm. Little drops of blood began to well out. "I glamoured you, blocked off those memories, because I knew you would hate it. It's too intense, too invasive. I'm sorry," The last bit came out in a whisper.

John frowned. Bonded. For life. He didn't feel any differently, but Sherlock could feel his feelings in the back of his head? Whatever the bonding entailed, it couldn't be a good thing. John didn't like the idea of Sherlock always knowing how he was feeling, nor did he like the idea of...Well, what? What kind of bond was it? Was he supposed to be Sherlock's? To be his mate, whatever that entailed?  Well, he sort of...DID like the idea of being Sherlock's lover, but not... not exclusively, not for life. He'd only known him for three days, making that judgment now was not the ideal. "That's...certainly not good news." He said with a frown. Still, even as much as it worried him, it was not what bothered him the most. "If it wasn't an accident, you can't be blamed for it. Erasing my memories, on the other hand, you did on purpose without even warning me!!" He shook his head. that was what he was angry about more than anything. "You're never going to do that again. In fact, you aren't allowed to do anything... Vampirey to me without my permission." John was laying down some ground rules now, because clearly there needed to be some if they were going to be together in any capacity. John's rules, as harsh as they were, were proof that he wasn't leaving, no matter how pissed off he was.

Sherlock stares hard at John. "You are not screaming. You're not even that upset about the bond. How?" He breathed. John confused the daylights out of him. Sherlock shook his head. He supposed that could wait. There were more important things to talk about. "Yes, of course. I would just ask that you don't...bleed in front of me..." He bit his lip, chagrined. A small part of him wanted to ask about the 'without my permission' bit. Did that mean John would eventually let him bite him? That was probably a bad idea. Sherlock would still accept the offer. He was still shocked that John was not leaving, despite knowing Sherlock had someone marked him as his mate for the rest of his life. Of course, he still did not know what all that meant. "John. I'm going to be rather...irrational. For a while. I feel I must warn you, if you are in fact staying."

John sighed laboriously. "I am staying." He said, matter of factly. How could he not? No matter how badly Sherlock had fucked up, he had still helped him tremendously. He was still the brilliant man he'd been in awe of. He'd gotten rid of his limp, and...John was sure, almost entirely sure, after all of this... that Sherlock loved him. How why else would he be acting like this, like John was this special? John wallowed. "And I am upset about the bond, but we can discuss that when it comes to it." He'd meant exactly that when he said 'without my permission'. He didn't know how or why or when vampires fed, and it was his job to let Sherlock drink from him, he'd do that. But he wouldn't let Sherlock just take from him without asking. He'd lost that privilege.  "I'll do my best to keep from bleeding around you. As for being irrational...I can deal with that."

Sherlock began laughing. Full out, deep laughter from the center of his chest. This was too much. He didn't even care that John probably thought him even more insane for it. After a moment he gasped out, "I believe you've just cost Mycroft quite a lot of money." Even if John didn't know what he meant, he had to find THAT funny, at least. After calming down he answered John's confused look. "Years and years ago there was a bet on. A bet that I would never in our immortality find someone like you, John." He grinned, taking care that it was a real smile and not the baring of teeth it could have been. "I'm certain he already knows of this turn of events. Would you, perhaps, like to go with me when I collect eventually? First meetings with my brother never seem to go in the other persons favor." Now his grin became distinctly predatory. "A second would give you much more time to compose yourself."

John quite frankly didn't care that Sherlock was stark raving mad. He had to be himself, to want to stay, to want this life. He wanted the danger and the excitement even if it was really quite a bother, even if it would probably end up hurting him, and might even end up killing him. He winced. Why did he feel like Rose Tyler? He looked Sherlock straight in the eye and said very seriously, "For what you've put me through, and because I'm the one who is doing all the work to make this a win in the younger Holmes' favor, I think I deserve a rather large cut of the winnings. Half, I'd reckon." He well and truly wasn't joking. Sherlock has erased his fucking memory and he was mad as hell. He deserved it.  John realized then that Mycroft trying to tell him off from Sherlock was most certainly not for his own safety. "So, in short, I'll be there with bells on."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, thoroughly impressed. "You are free to all of it, if you'd like. It is only a couple thousand. Five, if I remember correctly." He knew he certainly couldn't buy John's forgiveness, but money was nothing to Sherlock and he would gladly hand it over to make John happy. "Perhaps we can snap a photo of his face when you ask him to hand it all over to you." Sherlock's eyes momentarily took on a dreamy quality at the thought of screwing with his brother. If he must put up with him the least he could do was prove entertaining.

John smiled a bit in response before letting his eyes fall closed. "You aren't forgiven for this, Sherlock. Messing around in my head is NOT okay, and no matter what happens, even if I goddamn MARRY you, if you do that to me again I will leave. I won't be manipulated like that, do you hear me?" The thought of marrying Sherlock made him a little sick, simply for the reason that they'd only just met. Who knew, there was every possibility that Sherlock was simply his soul mate, but it was far too early to know. That was part of why the life bond made him wince. It was quite early to have his heart and apparently his head bound to Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock nodded, expression back to very serious. "I did not even want to do it the first time, John. The thought of doing that to you again makes me ill." He frowned, sensing John's unease. "I panicked. Quite completely." Sherlock stood from his spot on the floor, stretching his cramped muscles a bit. Sitting on the floor for this conversation had not been pleasant.

John frowned. "I know. I was there. I can remember now." He said. Sherlock's guilt... John didn't know if he wanted to let Sherlock stew in it for as long as possible so he knew just how serious this was to John, so he learned his lesson, or if he wanted to assure Sherlock that it was water under the bridge to let him feel better, because it was obvious how much Sherlock was already hurting. John decided to change the subject while he pushed himself up from the floor. His leg was still, but it was working. "So, this…Bond? Tell me about it." He collected his tea and stepped into the living room, claiming one end of the couch, glad that he could still call this flat his even after the batshit thing Sherlock had done.

Sherlock followed him in, settling down in to John's chair instead of sitting next to him. He didn't want to be anywhere near John right now, in fact, in case it disgusted him further. Sherlock had no urge to feel that again. "It's very...I don't know how to properly explain it. We are raised knowing it is a possibility, but they are usually cultivated. The fact that we joined so easily, without my conscious consent even, is very telling." Sherlock laced his hands and placed them under his chin. "Normally, you would be able to feel my emotions as well. However, you're human, so I do not think that will happen. It may. Who knows? I have never heard of a case such as this." Sherlock sunk a bit, from the real world to the world of problems and mysterious and facts. His eyes took on a bit of a faraway look.

John frowned. "It's very telling of...what, exactly?" He asked, taking a sip and trying to calm himself. "And what other kinds of things are involved? Does this make us lovers? As in, monogamous?" He thought about it for a long moment. Well, if he was going to have sex with only one person for the rest of his life, Sherlock wasn't a bad choice, but as for being in a relationship? John wanted to try it, he did really like Sherlock , and wasn't bothered by his deductions or his strange morals. He found Sherlock fascinating and he was quickly growing attached and affectionate... But he didn't have confidence that it would work out. "What else is there, besides the hearing my feelings bit? And how does that even work? And what do you mean, irrational?"

Sherlock made a vague gesture between them. "Of us. Of compatibility." He shook his head ever so slightly. "It makes us nothing, John. I told you, I had blocked your memories because I am going to try my damndest to ignore it.” As someone with very few lovers over a very long time, the idea of being completely monogamous with John was not a bad one, but Sherlock was certain it would be for John. "As far as I am aware, I should be able to track you at all times through it." He paused for a moment to see how John would react to that before plowing on. "And...I believe...You may be able to incapacitate me. With pain. I'm not sure how it would work for a human, or if it will at all...If I get to violent, if I snap, it could be very useful." He caught John's eye then. He wanted John to understand this next bit. It was very important. "Irrational in that I may behave illogically. I may be exceedingly jealous. If someone touches you, I may try to mark you. It will fade in time, and I will be doing my utmost to fight it while it lasts. I just wanted to warn you."

John frowned, and nodded. "Compatibility. But you're the only vampire here. Does that mean it might just be how good I am for you, and not the other way around?" He wasn't trying to point out that he wasn't sure Sherlock was right for him even if he was right for Sherlock, but it certainly sounded that way. It sounded like a rejection. "As for being able to track me...It could be useful." There was but a hint of distaste at the idea of Sherlock being able to spy on him. "Will you just know, or is it something you'll have to think about? If it's voluntary I'd rather you only used it in an emergency. If I can, of course, I'll only incapacitate you in an emergency as well.” He wouldn't cause Sherlock pain for no reason. That was the last thing he wanted. "As far as being illogical...Why are you trying to ignore something that's so obviously un-ignorable? How can you claim to be possessive of me if I'm not even yours?"

Sherlock visibly winced. Seeing it as rejection actually physically hurt someone in his position. Rejection from a bondmate was painful, something that most thought was part of the bond to coax vampires in to acceptance when they were bonded for marriages against their will. No one wanted to be in pain. "I will have to focus on it. It's not just something I'll inherently know." For the last part he bit his lip, it was so painful. To hear John point out that he wasn't actually Sherlock's - it was very painful. "I told you, it's not logical. I can claim to be possessive because the bond thinks you are mine. I am _going_ to ignore this as much as possible. Otherwise, I would most likely make your life miserable."

John shook his head. "You're an idiot." He said. "Why would you try to ignore something that is, by design, un-ignorable? Sherlock, we've known each other three days and you've already been unable to resist the pull of the bond twice. And it's clearly hurt you quite a bit, the second time. What makes you think that living with me and working with me day in and day out is going to yield any more success?" Sherlock could be such an idiot, for someone so smart, couldn't he?  John thought about what would really make him happy. Living on the edge. Having the life Sherlock had offered to him, with the running- oh god, he could run!- And the danger and the excitement. That would make him happy. And having someone who loved him, not being alone in the world, that would make him happy too. Sherlock was offering him both of those things, and it wasn't as though he was entirely unaffected by Sherlock. He was in awe of him in plenty of ways, and he wanted to take care of Sherlock. "I have a feeling that fighting the bond might make both our lives miserable."

Sherlock smiled a bit at being called an idiot. No one but John would ever say that to his face, because generally the concept of him being an idiot was ludicrous. In Sherlock's opinion, no matter what John would end up miserable. Sherlock could not comprehend that someone would actually want to be around him like John. It was impossible in his mind that anyone actually bonded to him would hate it. "Still," He said, "I am going to do my best to lessen its influences. If you would, please don't...touch anyone in front of me for the next few days." He frowned, hating that his control was so stripped from him. It must be much worse for John, however, and he needed to remember that.

John was thinking exactly the opposite. IF he had to put up with being with Sherlock, like an arranged marriage, well, at least it was his choice to enter into it... if that made any sense. He could refuse. He wouldn't, but he could. Sherlock couldn't refuse. He'd have John's feelings inside his head for the rest of his life. He'd be wanting John for the rest of his life. If John was ever with anyone else, then Sherlock would know exactly how John was feeling about it, and he would hurt. God would he hurt.  John wouldn't let that happen. With a sigh, John said a mental goodbye to breasts. He'd liked them rather a lot, after all. "Aside from you, you mean?" John asked.

Sherlock frowned even more. "No. It's probably best you did not touch me at all either. It wouldn't help with the ignoring bit, and who knows what I might do if I become desperate for a drink. Already other blood has begun to taste revolting to me." Earlier on his way to John's flat he had taken a swig from the flask he'd filled at the morgue, and almost spat it out in surprise. "If you touch me I may react before I think and do things I would later regret." This was going to be so difficult.

Sherlock really WAS in idiot. "Sherlock." He began, trying to get the vampire's undivided attention. It wasn't until he had the man staring into John's eyes, as though John were putting a glamour on him of his own, that John spoke. "Don't ignore it." He stared a few moments longer, letting Sherlock know just how serious he was, before he sat back, sighing softly. "I'll be yours." It was finally something he could do to feel like he was giving as good as he got from Sherlock. And though it wouldn't have been his first choice, it wasn't the worst fate he could have experienced. It was miles better than sitting alone in a tiny flat that he couldn't even afford, haunted by nightmares and wondering if now was a good time to pull the trigger.

Sherlock shuddered a bit, eyes falling closed. Those words made him want to do things. He wanted to visibly mark John, to bite at his throat so that all could see Sherlock's claim. He wanted John to mark him. He wanted to throw him to a bed and not stop until they were both screaming. But the most pressing thing currently was that he wanted to simply hug the man. Sherlock knew that no matter how long he lived he was never going to find another quite like John. "I won't ignore it," He conceded softly.

John gave Sherlock a small smile. Well then, good. That was worked out. Sherlock was his via weird vampire biological imperative, and he, via his own free will, was Sherlock's. Maybe now Sherlock could relax a bit, and stop hurting himself with guilt and denial. John took another sip of his tea. He might not be doing anything particularly strenuous, or be in any kind of danger, but his heart still felt like it was hammering out of his chest. "Good. I'll be yours." He repeated, just so Sherlock was sure. He let the goodness of that statement rest for a little while, before he continued. "But...There are a few conditions." It wasn't what he wanted, but he didn't think that the relationship could function any other way.

Sherlock nodded, trying to get his reactions back under his control. Do not molest your flatmate right now, he mentally repeated to himself several times. It was certainly not the time for it. "Of course, John." Sherlock had already spoken of his conditions, if they could be called that. He would gladly comply with anything John suggested. Probably. He still wasn't throwing out that foot covered in mold, though. Not even for a bondmate. That was important. As were the eyeballs in the microwave.

John wasn't going to ask for things like that. Alright, so he might ask Sherlock to put it in a box, away from his eyes when he was looking for the yogurt. Or maybe they could pool together and get a separate set of kitchen appliances specifically for Sherlock's experiments? Either way, those weren't the point. "I need transparency. If something's dangerous or going wrong or bothering you, you have to be honest about it. You have to tell me before you go making big decisions for me. You've already proven that you might not make the best decision. You've lost my trust in that matter, I'm afraid." John couldn't forget the manipulation. He simply couldn't. "No glamours, tracking, or blood sucking. Not of me at least. Not without my express permission or an emergency, and I mean a REAL emergency, Sherlock, a life or death situation kind of emergency." He hoped that was clear. "If you mess with my head again I WILL leave." He meant it. That was a no-tolerance kind of a thing. "Speaking of... I do reserve the right to leave." His voice grew quiet. "I know you already know that this is big. It's the rest of my life. Best case scenario, I can spend it with you happily. I won't leave your health and happiness out of the equation either. But if I can't make it work...I won't. You need to know that I will go if I have to." already he had regret on his face. He was going to try; he was going to do his damnedest to try. But he wasn't sure it would work out. "I'm sorry."

Sherlock shook his head ever so slightly. "You do not understand, John. You are free to leave at any time. I understand. In fact, I fully expect you to eventually." He said this in a calm manner, in a  tone of voice that clearly showed he was used to people leaving and that John's would not be that shocking.  "I will hurt, but I will force myself to accept that." He was adamant that John understand he was in no way going to hold him here. Sherlock had forced people before, many people, for many different things. He would not be forcing John in any manner. "Everything else, though, I accept. You must know, though, that if I feel anything alerting from you - panic, fear, pain - I will track you. I most likely will not have any say in that. The bond forces one to protect their mate." He stared straight in to John's eyes. "I will never glamour you again. No matter what. I can promise you that. And if you refrain from baring your throat to me you will not have to worry about that either. I have survived this long without your blood, John, I can continue. Even if everything else tastes positively foul now," He muttered the last under his breath.

John shook his head. "I hope I won't ever have to leave you. I'm not entering into this relationship lightly, Sherlock. This isn't a flight of fancy. I want it to work. My goal is for it to work, for me to stay with you. I just don't know if it will." John gracefully accepted the policy about the tracking by explaining sensibly, "If you feel panic, pain and fear from me, it's possible it's a life or death situation, is it not? That's fine." He remained completely silent about the glamour. At this point, he hoped Sherlock knew well enough to keep true to his words. Finally, on a lighter note, John replied with "When you drank my blood last night, it wasn't unpleasant. If you want it so much, I'll give it to you, when I'm feeling up to it. Just understand that it's mine to give, not yours to take."

Sherlock smirked a bit, the expression once more completely predatory as he remembered. His tongue darted out to moisten his lips. "You taste rather lovely, you know. Quite frankly exquisite." Sherlock said, as if he were speaking of the wine they had drank that night and not of the very vital fluid flowing through John's veins. "Of course. That first night was just a bit...too much to handle. To be fair, I most likely never would have attacked you if you hadn't been bleeding and then asked for my help in bandaging it." The smirk turned in to a smile that was fond at the edges. He was honestly horrified at the outcome, but it was a bit humorous in retrospect. Asking a vampire to bandage an open wound. Ha.

That predatory look was all at once sexy and legitimately scary. If John didn't know that Sherlock was deeply remorseful and hurt by the whole situation, he'd think that Sherlock really would prey on him at a moment's notice, with or without his consent.  The very real fear he experienced was not a hateful kind of fear, but an exhilarated one, an addictive one. Then again, they were rather close, so it registered in Sherlock's head only as what it was. Still fear. John's pulse went a bit quicker and his limbs a bit tenser, as if ready to run at a moment's notice. To John, it felt wonderful. "It's not as if I knew, then." He said breathlessly.

Sherlock was torn. He felt the fear, how could he not, but he did not know if he should stop or continue. He knew John was addicted to danger, to the rush, to the thrill and the adrenaline, but Sherlock was not sure if John would appreciate it in regards to this. In the end he did what he always did. He pushed, just to see what would happen. "No," His voice was suddenly low, intimate, as if he were sharing a deep secret with John - and in a way he was, "Most do not until it is much too late." Sherlock had long since learned how to wield his voice as a weapon. He didn't quite understand it but that certainly didn't stop him from using it. Just ask people like Molly.

John shivered. Sherlock's voice was gorgeous, hypnotizing. He'd have to be dead not to react to it. That said, he knew exactly what Sherlock was using it for.  "Stop that." He said, though his cheeks were already red and his eyes a bit dark. "I'm still cross with you, and if you use your irresistibility to get me into bed while I'm cross I'll be even more cross by the time we've finished." He wasn't in the mood (emotionally speaking) to sleep with Sherlock, or to let him drink his blood. He didn't want to be intimate with Sherlock rightn ow, when he was upset with him for what he'd done.

Sherlock stopped immediately, voice turning back to the normal gorgeous tone instead of the purposefully seductive one. His face didn't lose the smile, though. "Irresistible, am I?" That entertained him deeply. He hadn't actually intended to get John in to bed tonight or to allow him access to his throat. He'd simply wanted to see what would happen. Many, many things in his life had happened because of Sherlock's all-consuming need to say "Why not?" and to push until things broke. Some scenarios ended on a high note, and some were so terrible he had probably deleted them immediately from memory. Like that time several centuries ago when he'd pretended to be a woman for study purposes and a man had attempted to rape him. Sherlock wasn't sure if they ever did find all of his body parts.

John crossed his arms, looking significantly unamused. "Yes. And it's bloody well annoying. Are you sure you're not glamoring me again? To think you're far more attractive than you actually are? Because it's kind of ridiculous." By the end of his speech he was smiling faintly. He couldn't help it. "No. No sex tonight, and no blood." He said, resolutely. "Not just because I'm angry but because this is new. It might be too much to ask, but I'd like to try and ease into it." He leaned forward. "You know what you can have?"

Sherlock frowned. He was quite serious about his regret over the glamouring. "Of course I'm not-" He paused as he realized John was smiling. Well. Damn. Anyway, there were more important matters to think of. "Easing in to it"? Sherlock was not quite sure what that meant, as he had never been in any actual relationships. Too tedious. Sherlock raised an eyebrow, "What may I have, John?"

John straightened up and then extended his arm over the table, hand palm up. He was offering Sherlock not just his hand, but some real affection. He wanted to feel Sherlock's skin against his own, and for Sherlock to feel his, to know that he was alive and there and his. He wanted Sherlock to really _know_. He smiled, hoping that his offering was not too measly to accept. He hoped that Sherlock understood the emotional contract behind it that John had a feeling was quite valuable to his new vampire boyfriend.

Sherlock swallowed. That was...a lot. For him. Sex was one thing. He had slept with people before - several times solely for the sake of research. But this.  This was not sex, this was....comfort, he supposed. He never stayed to enjoy the afterglow or any of the silly cuddling some of the people wanted to insist on, and he has always shirked physical contact in an everyday context. Sherlock very gently laid one of his own hands on top of John's, not holding on, just laying on top. The contrast between their skin was rather lovely, he thought. And just in their hands - John's large and rough, Sherlock's long and thin. The warmth was nice as well.

John gave Sherlock a moment to observe, to get used to it, before he did grab on gently, pulling Sherlock's hand closer towards him so he could comfortably lay his other hand on top, sandwiching Sherlock's in between. Then after a moment, he pressed his leg between Sherlock's. It was all very comfortable. He looked up at Sherlock's face. "This alright?" He asked, with a smile, meeting silvery eyes. He wanted to know if Sherlock was comfortable with this, before he started speaking and asking questions and getting to know Sherlock a little better, the way humans did.

Sherlock's face was soft, softer than he would ever let it be in front of most people. This type of expression would have gotten him ridiculed in his clan. Emotion was weakness. His fingers closed around John's as if to rebel against everything he was taught. "Fine," He answered simply. And it was. It was all fine. The hand gave a little twitch in John's, like it wasn't used to being confined like this and it wanted to let that be known to all.

John shushed it by gently running his thumb over the back of Sherlock's hand. He'd get comfortable with this, and soon enough. "Try to relax." John said, his voice soft and warm, and then a little mischief sparkled in his eyes. "If you're good maybe I'll give you a kiss later too." After his little joke, he let silence fall for a bit, looking down at their joined hands- god, Sherlock was pale- and rubbing Sherlock's. When he spoke, he glanced back up at the vampire. "For what it’s worth, I'm sorry this all happened to you too. That you had to be bonded to me, had to choose. This whole ordeal hasn't been pleasant for you, either."

Sherlock's fingers clenched tight suddenly around the others. "John." He shook his head. "I would rather this had never happened to me at all, but if I had had to choose any one person for me to bond to...It would be you. I was not speaking lightly when I said you were rather remarkable." Sherlock pressed his legs in closer to John's one just to feel the warmth and solid presence more. "I regret not the bond, but that I have inadvertently forced you in to dealing with it." His head dropped a bit. Sherlock was not sure if this was love or not, never having had any chance to experience things like that, but he had no other reason to explain why the thought of hurting someone else so highly affected him when before it never did. But only this someone. Everyone else could rot.

John went a little red, right at the tips of his ears. "Well, maybe it was on purpose then. Maybe your baser instincts just knew." He dropped his head a little, squeezing Sherlock back. "Anyhow... It's not my best case scenario, certainly. Would have liked to date. Would have liked to sleep with more women before I settled down. I will miss breasts. Would like to know it's going to work out with you before jumping right in. Otherwise..." He swallowed. "If you'd asked me, after last night, to be your lover instead of wiping my mind, I would have said yes. I probably even would have said yes if you explained the bond."

Sherlock stared in shock. "Well. Well..." For once Sherlock Holmes was utterly stumped. No words came immediately to mind. It was actually sort of liberating. "Shit." He said succinctly. Sherlock had certainly fucked things up royally with that glamour. That should teach him to never make decisions while in a panic. It happened so rarely that he acted before thinking. "I'm sorry. About the...ah...breasts." He added, jokingly, "Would a threesome content you? I might be able to handle that." He was not actually serious, but hopefully it would lighten the mood a bit. Sherlock did not want to share John, and at this point was utterly unable to imagine that scenario ending in any way but bloody.

John smiled softly. He knew just how guilty Sherlock was. And it was alright.  He didn't have to be guilty anymore. "I'm in the process of forgiving you completely." John said, thumb now running over Sherlock's knuckles. "So just don't bollocks it up." He sat back and listened to Sherlock's suggestion. "I think I'd like to get used to just you, first. Maybe someday if it strikes our fancy. Though we'd have to find someone who wouldn't mind your fangs popping out along with your cock." He said with a grin. "Human women like that are one in a million, I assume."

Sherlock laughed, a quick, sharp sound. "It will never strike _my_ fancy, I am not the one who misses breasts. But if it strikes yours, we could always ask Molly the morgue attendant." He joked and then clarified at John's confused look. "She is aware of my nature. Seems to think I'm like something out of those rubbish Twilight books. It is through her I obtain most of my blood. The blood banks are the best, but I cannot take very often from them without running the risk of being caught. She is...handy, if not a bit obsessed."

"Huh." John said, raising his eyebrows and sounding a bit obsessed. "Well, that would be a treat for her then, wouldn't it? Is she attractive?" John was only seriously considering it a little bit. A teensy touch. He really WOULD miss breasts. If he though Sherlock wouldn't be miserable, maybe someday they'd give it a try. "Speaking of, your eating habits. How much do you drink, and how often?" He frowned. "I don't suppose I could sustain you myself." He wasn’t sure if he wanted to. Surely he'd be sick from blood and plasma loss soon enough.

Sherlock shrugged. "Not in my opinion. However, not many people are." He pulled his legs up to the seat, knees bent up, looking for all the world like a great bird of prey perching on a tree branch. How he was able to sit in such ridiculous positions and still maintain an air of elegance was something no one could understand. "I do not feed much, even for a vampire. Twice a day. About twelve cups in a week." Sherlock shook his head at him. "I would never ask you to try and sustain me, John, I would end up killing you. I will continue with my regular regimen." His lips turned down a bit in distaste, "Molly will be pleased." She genuinely cared for him, and a bit of him did appreciate that, but now that he...well... _had_ John, the obviousness of her lust was a bit trying.

"Hmm…I'll reserve judgment, then." John listened to Sherlock's assessment of his own diet and quite agreed. "Yes, I can't provide that to you, but I can help." He chuckled. "Everyone is going to know I have a new lover, showing up to the surgery with a great red teeth mark on my neck." He didn't realize how much Sherlock might want to mark him as his own, let alone that it might be a call from the bond for Sherlock to brand him. John didn't mind everyone seeing his love bites, even if they weren't actually from sex.

Sherlock's mind took that thought and ran away with it rather quickly. John, walking around in public with Sherlock's mark visible for everyone to see...Or of John using his blunt human teeth to mark him...A soft little moan escaped Sherlock's chest before he could stop it. The idea of it was too much. Sherlock's teeth dug in to his lower lip and he attempted to hide the fact that he was flushing a bit. There was no way John could miss his sudden and intense arousal. Damn. Well, he'd wanted him to be honest, right? Best to try his hand at that. "John…I...Would enjoy that rather a lot more than you can comprehend..." His voice was a bit breathy.

John watched him and blushed a little himself. Sherlock REALLY wanted to give him a great big hickey, didn't he? Now wasn't a great time to test that theory, no matter how hot and bothered Sherlock got. Oh, just the idea that he could get Sherlock this excited with one thought was amazing.  John squeezed Sherlock's hand, and then brought it up to his lips for a soft kiss to the back of his fingers.  He locked eyes with Sherlock. "The next time you drink from me, drink from somewhere easily visible. I won't try to hide it. You don't even have to heal it all the way if you can manage to make it not look like a vampire bite. It will be like a big flashing neon sign that says 'Property of Sherlock Holmes'."

Sherlock all but vibrated in his seat. His hand pulled free from John's so that he could gently caress the other man's cheek with his thumb, taking in the texture of the skin. "It would be best if you stopped speaking of this now, John, before I do something neither of us wants." His voice was low, soft like his face, and tender instead of rough and aroused. Clearly this meant more to him emotionally than it did physically.

John's eyes opened a bit wider. He was surprised to see such emotion there, instead expecting Sherlock to close his eyes bitterly, holding back arousal, but this was different. John reached up one hand and laced his fingers in Sherlock's. “Of course." He said, but stood up and leaned closer and closer to the Consulting detective's face. He murmured in his ear, "Sometime soon though, right?" He wanted Sherlock to know exactly what he had to look forward to.

Sherlock stood as well, holding John’s hand tight in his, while the other came up to once again to allow him to lightly trail his thumb along John's jaw. He used the thumb to slightly tip back John's head. Then, going slowly so that he could watch John's reaction at every moment, he lightly pressed his lips to John's own. After a moment of gentle pressure he pulled back, dropping both hands from John. "Soon, please," He agreed. The word 'please' felt a bit odd in his mouth, but he forced it out anyway.

Be the end of the small, gentle kiss, John was shaking slightly. Sherlock...He was so filled with emotion. Even just a little bit of emotion seemed out of character for him completely. To kiss him, so sweet and soft, and holding his hand tight, when he could be pushing and pressing for sex or blood and John probably would have given it to him, if a little begrudgingly. It was amazing, simply amazing, and the only conclusion John could draw was that Sherlock loved him, really loved him. Was it just the bond? Was this artificial? Fuck, John almost didn't care. If Sherlock could fuck with the same passion he'd just pecked him on the mouth... John shivered. "Christ, Sherlock." He said, letting his eyes fall close.  He wanted to cling to Sherlock, press himself as close as he could in every way that he could, and soak up as much of that 'love' as he could. He felt like he was starved for it.

Sherlock clenched his hands by his side against the all-consuming urge to press closer, to wrap every bit of himself against every bit of John. Oh, how he wanted to. Sherlock wanted to kiss him again, longer this time until John was moaning in to his mouth. He wanted to hold him until dawn broke and they were forced to go about their business. He wanted to take John apart and inspect every little piece, only to put him back together again with a little bit of Sherlock mixed in. Sherlock wanted to mark him, but not only visibly. He wanted to stamp his name invisibly all across John's heart. Instead he let his eyes fall closed and he whispered, "I believe if you wanted us to take this slow, I should leave you to your sleep now."

John couldn't help it. Sherlock was right, he needed to get away, and soon, or else he and Sherlock would end up naked on- Well, any surface really, it didn't matter as long as they were naked, and Sherlock was kissing him again, and letting all of those strange and intense feelings focus on him. John couldn't just leave, though. He stepped around the table and pressed into Sherlock's arms, his own wrapping around Sherlock's neck. He stood on his tip-toes to reach him, and he whispered, "Sweet dreams." In to Sherlock's ear before pressing his own sweet kiss into Sherlock's cheek, his nose pushing slightly into Sherlock's prominent high cheekbones.

Sherlock froze. This was very odd. No one had hugged him except Mummy, and she had long since stopped. The last time he could remember was when he was still a child, seemingly six years old but much older. Hesitantly his arms came up to wrap around John's waist. The height difference made it a bit odd, but Sherlock couldn't care in the least. Very slowly he lowered his head down to John's shoulder, his nose and lips hovering an inch from John's throat. Instead of biting or sucking or even kissing, Sherlock nuzzled at the skin, arms tightening around John. Ah, he thought. So this is why people hugged. It was rather...nice. He had been planning on letting John escape and sleep, but now he just wanted to hold on to him a bit. It was like proof. Proof that someone actually wanted to be here with him. It was going to take Sherlock a little while to accustom himself to that.

John could tell that this was big for Sherlock, that it was unexpected. Perhaps he hadn't been hugged in a very long time? He didn't seem the hugging sort, and he was immortal, so...Hell, it could have been centuries. John held him a little tighter. "Nice, isn't it?" He murmured, letting his nose nestle in Sherlock's cheek in much the same way. He let a comfortable silence follow, before murmuring seriously, "I really do want this to work out. For your sake as well as mine. Do you think we have a chance at all, Sherlock?"

Sherlock gave a tiny little shrug. His lips brushed across John's throat when he spoke, "I do not know, John. That does not happen often, me not knowing something." He pulled back to look John in the eye, but kept his arms loose around John's waist. "I hope we do, in any case. Life will be so dull without you." He leant forward to kiss the man on the forehead. It was official; he'd gone round the bend, participating in such sappy actions. "Go, sleep. Before I forget I am not supposed to be snogging you senseless."

John sat back down on his  heels, letting his fingers play with the wayward curls at the base of Sherlock's neck, since he couldn't really hug him around the neck at this height. Sherlock's lips were warm on his forehead. "You're sure your brother isn't going to kill me in my sleep for messing with your head and making you all lovey dovey, is he?" He asked with a little smirk. "He's a vampire too, right? And his assistant?" At this point he was really just stalling. He didn't want to say good night, even if he also didn't want to shag on the sofa.

Sherlock saw the stalling for what it was and heartily approved. Whether they were having sex or not, he didn't care, he just wanted to spend more time with John. "My brother is a smart man, John. He knows that to kill you now would be a very, very bad idea." His eyes took on the look of the animal again, just for a flash. "But yes. He is a vampire as well. I don't know which assistant you're speaking of, as I have not seen him in a decade, but they would be as well. Most of the upper echelons of the government are, and my brother IS the British government. That's quite the secret, though. Best not to mention it." Sherlock's head tipped back a bit in pleasure and John's fingers at the back of his neck.

John knew that Sherlock wasn't stupid enough to not realize he was just trying to prolong their time together, and he was glad that he didn't object. "Let's hope that killing me ALWAYS remains a bad idea." He sail with a small, nervous smile. He was playing with fire, being with Sherlock, a vampire, of that he was under no illusions. "She's dark skinned, good looking. Little bit of an accent. On the shorter side. Plugged into her blackberry. If you remember her at all." Sherlock's news was shocking, though. Not that Mycroft was the British government. That the British Government were blood sucking monsters. "What, really? As in the prime minister and everything? What about the Royal Family? Are they Vampires too!?" John was scandalized, but he couldn't help but laugh.

Sherlock chuckled. "Not that I am aware of, no. Their advisors, yes. But I do not believe the Royal Family themselves are." Sherlock took John lightly by the wrist and lead him back to the couch he had occupied earlier. This time, instead of sitting as far as possible, he planned to sit quite close. Sherlock could be reasonable about this. They both obviously did not want to separate for the night, but that did not mean they had to fuck. They could just sit and talk. That would please him, and he was certain it would please John as well.

John gave another little chuckle. "Well, I suppose it makes sense. Having people in the business who have plenty of experience. That's really the best as far as leaders go, isn't it?" John was very patriotic, and he wasn't going to stop being patriotic because he found out that his country was run by creatures of the night. His ...boyfriend?... was now also one, so he really had no room to complain. John slid his wrist out of Sherlock's hand so instead he could intertwine their fingers, holding him tight. John sat close enough to Sherlock then to let their joined hands rest on his knee.

Sherlock stroked his thumb across John's knee. "The Royal Family are werewolves." He said casually, as if further screwing up a persons take on every day life was something completely normal. Sherlock slid a bit closer to John so that they were touching flush from shoulders to knee. There was to be no need for personal space now, right? At least at moments like this? In any case, the close contact and John's content emotions pleased the bond. It was a humming thing in the back of his head, curled up and purring like a pleased cat. Sherlock himself was quite content with tonight's events. The horror of the glamour breaking and the panic had melted into a quiet pleasure at just sitting her next to John.

John glanced at Sherlock as he felt the whole impossibly long length of the man pressed against him. This was a cuddle war and Sherlock was playing dirty. John shook his head, at this point refusing to be shocked by anything, because fuck, he was curled up with a sodding VAMPIRE. At this point he felt like being shocked about anything was a bit over the top. "Werewolves? Any more monster movie villains milling about?" He asked, and then leaned his head on Sherlock's shoulder. They didn't fit together perfectly. With the height difference that would have been absurd. But sitting down like this, John found that he was the perfect height to let his head rest on Sherlock's shoulder. "Perhaps I'm the only human left in the entire world and you've fallen in love with me because I'm one of a kind." He said, ridiculously.

Sherlock's body tensed ever so slightly. It would be impossible for John to miss, what with them pressed to close together. It was the first time either of them had said the word "love" in regards to Sherlock's feelings for him. Was it that obvious? Sherlock didn't think he'd been hiding his regard very well, but he had not thought John would know he was already stupidly in love with him. He tried to joke about it, but his voice was a little tense, "Well, I do not know about being the only human left - I'm sure Mycroft would inform me if that had happened - but you are certainly one of a kind." 'Rather remarkable' was unspoken but obvious.

John shivered himself. Sherlock had more or less just outright admitted it. He'd taken John's bait and much like Angelo saying that John was Sherlock's date, he didn't deny it. What if it wasn't really for him, wasn't really Sherlock? Surely things didn't work this way. People didn't just fall so terribly in love in three days. Or even less, now John thought about it. It didn't work that way, couldn't, not even for vampires. Sherlock might know all about Harry and which war he'd come from, but he didn't know enough about John yet to be in LOVE with him, did he? So all of this, it had to be artificial. Had to be because of the bond. Couldn't be anything else.  John couldn't help but feel as suddenly repulsed as he was excited, and Sherlock could feel it. He didn't want something that wasn't real.

Sherlock tensed even further. "It's not fake," He whispered. He needed John to understand that. The bond didn't work that way, didn't create artificial feelings. It encouraged them, with the ability to feel and understand your partner, and it latched on to compatibility between two people, but it did not completely create love. Sherlock didn't know what to say, but he needed that disgusted feeling to vanish. It was actually making him feel a bit nauseous. He could tell John his life story by now, how could he not know enough to form, ah, feelings, for John? Even now he had trouble labeling it love, but there could be no other name. Sherlock loved John. It had been interest at first, then lust, but the only explanation for him wanting to please John when he cared so little for everyone else, for his wanting John to be happy even if it meant he was miserable, was love.

John could hear the pain in Sherlock’s voice. Of course, he could feel John’s feelings, and he was smart enough to put two and two together. He wanted to put Sherlock’s mind to rest. The disgust was chased by remorse, filling Sherlock’s head. John shifted a little, leaning back into Sherlock’s shoulder, leaving room for the vampire to put his arm around his shoulder. He adjusted his head, the bridge of his nose pressing into his neck and his eyelids fluttering against the sensitive skin there. “Three days is just a little quick to fall head over heels in love with someone. It’s just…strange.” He let that hang, while he considered what to say. “I want it to be real.”

Sherlock hesitantly lifted an arm to lie across John’s shoulders, eyelids drooping as John’s own tickle his throat. That area is very sensitive and he needs to remember to tell John to stay far away from it unless he has plans to arouse Sherlock. His throat vibrated against John when he spoke, “I agree. It’s…very odd. I have never experienced anything like this, John, but for me,” Sherlock paused here, unsure of his words. He could talk for ages on science and the ins and outs of murder cases, but if you wanted him to speak of emotions he was completely muddled. Sherlock pressed onwards, “For me it is real. I cannot explain it. Logically I know it has only been three days, and that this is ludicrous, but I do not think I could stop my feelings for you even if I were so inclined.” Again, another pause, “I’m sorry.” It seemed a good idea to add that. Just in case John was overwhelmed.  Sherlock most likely would have been had their situations been reversed. 

John's free hand came and his fingers gently gripping the fabric of Sherlock's shirt, clinging to him almost like a child. Sherlock was warm and comfortable. Surprising. Wasn't he dead? Perhaps not. Still it seemed like he should be cold to the touch, and he wasn't. If he was cold at all, it was because of his slight frame and not because of his nature. John nuzzled Sherlock's collarbone, and now his hair was tickling Sherlock's neck. "You don't have to apologize. I...It feels good to have someone feel that way about you." Or, well, it could. In this case. Sherlock's feelings were welcome. "I like it. From you, I mean, not just in general."

Sherlock's head tipped back and to the side in an attempt to escape John's contact with his throat. It didn't quite work. Sherlock hmm'd under his breath. "Good. I am glad. It'd be rather hard to stop, I should think." Sherlock leaned a bit more in to John. Was this 'cuddling'? No wonder people did it. Sherlock never put up with his sexual partners inane need to cuddle afterwards, preferring to document the experience and then leave as quickly as possible, but this...It was warm and nice and John smelled of wool and steel and soap and the tea he'd had earlier. It was oddly comforting, to inhale and smell not just his blood but all of those other scents as well.

Instead of saying anymore, the doctor just kept where he was, breathing in and smelling Sherlock's smell. He realized then that this was exactly what he'd wanted to just a few moments ago when he realized just how much Sherlock felt for him. He was clinging tight and soaking it in. He gave a little self-deprecating laugh. It was kind of pathetic, wasn't it? To be so needy for just a little love. To be fair, he was a little starved for it. There hadn't been anyone since he'd gotten back from Afghanistan. And even before, while he'd been there, He'd had sexual encounters, but no real relationships. Someone caring for him like this, and showing it... It was good. Very good.

Sherlock frowned at the bitterness in that laugh. What was that for? As much as he liked to pretend for the ignorant public, he really couldn't read minds. In any case, he did not have to read minds to know that something was wrong. What with his inability to form coherent words over feelings and the problems related to them, he decided to give as much physical comfort as he could - not that he had any experience with that, either. Sherlock ducked his head down to kiss John's forehead again, then the tip of his nose. Was this working at all? Hopefully, he thought. His arm tightened on John's shoulder. If they were any closer, now, they'd be one body. He liked that. Sherlock liked that rather a lot.

John gave another little chuckle at Sherlock's little kisses. They were sweet, and cute, especially from Sherlock, who wasanything but sweet OR cute. It was the kind of chuckle one made about kittens. It mixed in quite well with how he hated himself just a little right now. He should have come back home and found a lover instead of wallowing in his own depression and getting to a state where even a situation like this seemed like a blessing, and one that he was desperate for. He realized then that worrying about Sherlock's feelings not being 100% genuine was somewhat hypocritical. He was curling close to Sherlock like he was in love with him, too. Really what he was was touch starved. He was the one who wasn't completely sincere.

Sherlock felt the self-hate and put two and two together to get four. He knew John was not as invested, that was obvious, and given the choice, he would have chosen someone other than Sherlock, surely. He saw the signs of touch starvation and the almost desperate need for affection. John was not entwined with him because Sherlock was Sherlock. He started to pull away a bit before that pesky little thing called a heart kicked him. No matter how he tried, he couldn't seem to completely crush the damn thing. Instead of withdrawing because of his own stupid emotions that insisted he shouldn't be showing his hand to someone who did not care as much as he did for them, he tugged at John, trying to explain without words that he would like him to lay along the sofa and put his head in Sherlock's lap. He was short enough that they just might manage it. The feet may hang over, but that'd be alright. John needed to sleep eventually, Sherlock didn't, and a bed was too intimate. Why not allow John to fall asleep on the couch with a hand running through his hair, with the touch of someone who loved him? Even if he didn't love him in return, Sherlock still wanted to make John happy. Gods, what had happened to him in these past three days. Sherlock barely recognized himself.

It took John a moment to understand what Sherlock was trying to do, but when he did he realized exactly what Sherlock was offering to him. Sherlock was offering him comfort, now. God, that was sweet. Heart filling with reaction to Sherlock's caring, John wanted to reward him somehow, to let him know that this thing he was doing, it was...good. He placed a long, soft kiss on Sherlock's cheek, his nose brushing the skin there as he withdrew. From there he wriggled and shifted until he was comfortable enough to lie down, and he did. John laid his head in Sherlock's lap, turning towards him, toward the back of the couch, careful to avoid his genitals in any way, and John pressed his face into Sherlock's belly. Smelled good here too, was warm and intimate even if the only part of him that was actually touching Sherlock was his head.

Sherlock smiled, a soft little thing that he would deny he made until his dying day, and carded his hands slowly through John's hair. It was an interesting color. Not just blonde, not just brown, there was even a little bit of grey. Dishwater, he decided to call it. His nails scratched lightly against John's scalp, dragging from the top of his head down to the base in a slow, soothing manner. After a moment of quiet, Sherlock began humming under his breath, not loud enough to disturb. There had been the notes of a song hovering in his head for the past week, and so he took this silent moment to flesh it out, to try and match his humming to the sounds his violin would produce. He would have rathered to grab the instrument and actually play on that, but that didn't seem conducive to his 'make John fall asleep' idea.

Sherlock was wrong, in a way. Sure, John wasn't in love with the man, he really was taking advantage of him for the comfort and affection, but that didn't mean he didn't like this. It was wrong to say that he'd want anyone other than Sherlock. Twice he'd pursued the man, after all.  Twice. He thought Sherlock was fascinating and brilliant, and that was to say nothing of his physicality. Now he was learning that Sherlock also had a softer side to him. John liked him very, very much, and right now Sherlock was the only one he wanted to be with. The only question was, would it last? Could it last? John though that if anyone was prepared to handle a genius and a sociopath and a vampire, it was him. “Thank you." He murmured softly into the fabric of Sherlock's shirt. The man's fingers through his hair were mesmerizing. John was about to fall asleep with his head in the lap of a creature who preyed on mankind, and he didn't spare a second thought about it.

Sherlock paused in his humming. Being thanked was something else he wasn't used to. Even Lestrade, when he solved cases for the man, didn't thank him for putting their murderers behind bars. Instead of saying anything he just gave John's scalp a slightly harder stroke and picked up his humming again. After several moments of this the man in his lap was asleep. Carefully, very, very carefully, Sherlock picked John up, his head up by Sherlock's shoulder and Sherlock's arm around his, and the other arm under John's knees. They probably looked ridiculous, a grown man being so easily carried by someone of Sherlock's thin frame, but John was really quite light to him. He made his way to John's bedroom and placed him gently down. It was quick work to have the blanket up around him. Sherlock stood by the side of the bed, head tilted as he took in John's sleeping form. Simply watching the steady rise and fall of John's chest was soothing. If he wasn't sure that stalking over someone while they slept would be a bit not good, he would have spent the entire night there, cataloguing all of John's movements and sighs and sounds.

John certainly wasn't light by normal standards, even if he was a little on the small side. He was stuffed and compact with muscle.  John, as very exhausted as he was, did not awaken after he'd fallen gently to sleep. It had taken a lot out of him, having his brain wiped and then un-wiped all in the span of 24 hours. In fact, he slept like a baby, so deep in dream that when Sherlock set him down his fingers hang off of the cuff of his shirt for a moment, where he'd reflexively grasped it like a child to its mother. He was so very peaceful when he slept, and as long as he didn't wake up with Sherlock looming over him, he really wouldn't have minded.

Sherlock slides his hand away from where John had his hold on his cuff. Then, with one last glance back, he left John's room to make his way back to the couch. He stretched out much like John had done moments earlier. Sherlock inhaled deeply. John's scent had completely soaked in, mixing with the one that had already been there - Sherlock's. His eyes fell closed. Despite not thinking he'd need to sleep tonight, as he really very rarely did, he drifted off in to a light slumber, wrapped and relaxed as he was in this little bubble of John's warmth and scent.


	11. Chapter 11

When John woke up the next morning, he was bleary as hell, and with morning wood that spoke of the possibilities of last night that had been left unfulfilled for emotional reasons rather than physical ones. He took care of both in the shower, and then got some basic clothes on, including a t-shirt and a warm jumper. As he head downstairs, he wondered where his flat mate/lover/eventual murderer was. It was rather silent after all, and John was still surprised that Sherlock hadn't yet fulfilled his promise of playing the violin. John wasn't expecting to find him curled up asleep on the couch.  He looked so vulnerable. Cute, even. John tried to keep quiet, tiptoeing around him to grab up the afghan that was slung over one of the armchairs and lay it gently over Sherlock's frame before he went into the kitchen. Sherlock awoke to the smell of fresh coffee and frying eggs, as well as the low hum of a Smiths song under John's breath as he tried to keep quiet.

Sherlock woke to the unfamiliar feeling of the afghan covering him and the even more unfamiliar smell of breakfast cooking in his kitchen. Years of practice had him evaluating everything before he'd opened his eyes - good practice if you were ever kidnapped. Finally his eyes slid open, his body following quickly to slide up in to a seated position, and he glanced around. Hmm. Hadn't meant to fall asleep, he thought. Sherlock stood and wandered in to the kitchen, shifting his shoulders. "Good morning, John," His voice was rough from sleep. Sherlock stretched his arms above his head, fingers locked, and gave a very cat-like shudder that rippled down his entire body, even to the curling of his bare toes on the kitchen floor. He hated sleeping. It made his brain foggy and lazy and his body slow.

John looked back away from the eggs he was cooking, and the poor rendition of the musical styling’s of The Smiths immediately ceased. Before he could answer Sherlock's simple greeting, his eyes latched onto his...boyfriend's body (that word was so strange, but anything else was a little too intimate, like lover, or anything else...but boyfriend was almost not intimate enough) and just ate in the sight ravenously. His back and arms rippled slightly as he stretched, and it was a gorgeous, gorgeous sight. What he wanted to say to Sherlock was "Christ, do you HAVE to be so bloody attractive?!" But what he did instead was turn back to his eggs, blushing, and said "Morning. Did you want eggs? I didn't suppose you did, but I can put some more on if you like."

Sherlock took note of the blush and frowned, ticking his head to the side. What was that for? All he'd done was walk in. And the staring as well. Sherlock wondered if he should ask John if he was always so odd in the morning, but decided against it. Who knew what would offend humans? They were all odd. "No, thank you," He answered, stepping closer to rummage around in the fridge. After a moment of careful searching - he didn't want to disrupt the experiment in there - he pulled out a small thermos. He lifted it a bit to John, as if to say "here's my breakfast" and took a quick swig. His face immediately crinkled. How disgusting. Sherlock hated that the bond screwed with his sense of taste for others blood. He shoved the thermos back in to the fridge after only that one drink.

John watched him with a little frown.  He'd mentioned earlier that all other blood now tasted repulsive to him. The sight of Sherlock drinking blood was enough to turn John's stomach a little. Something didn't add up, though. "Sherlock..." He began cautiously. "You're... So the bond is made for vampires, right? Why does all other blood become disgusting, if you're supposed to be drinking another vampire's blood? Doesn't that seem…I dunno, counter intuitive to you? Or even with me, for that matter. I can't sustain you even if I was willing to put up with being weak and in bed for the rest of my life. So how is that feature of the bond supposed to help you?"

Sherlock shrugged as he licked a bit of red from his lips. "I don't actually know. Perhaps it'll fade over time and is only present in the beginning to make the two newly bonded mates rely on each other. I hope, anyway," He gave a little shudder, "Because what I just drank tasted like ammonia mixed with sludge." Sherlock stepped away from the fridge to take a spot in one of the table chairs. He steepeled his fingers together and watched John. "They were first used for arranged marriages between clans, after all. It would make sense, at least."

John hummed. Hopefully, it would go away. "When do you think you'll be needing a real meal?" He asked, so he could try and plan ahead a bit, so that Sherlock could do it in the morning and he could make sure not to do anything too strenuous for the rest of the day. "And, how often do you need to?" John wondered if he could perhaps be useful for half of Sherlock's feedings now, if that would be adequate, both for Sherlock's body and his own. He wanted to be as helpful as he could, but he DID need to use his own blood, so....

Sherlock shook his head. "Despite its completely disgusting taste, I have had worse things in my mouth. I'll continue as I have. There's no need for you to keep me fed, John." The other man had made it quite clear before that he didn't want Sherlock drinking from him without permission, but Sherlock would take that a step farther and simply not drink from him at all. The less Sherlock reminded John that he was a blood-sucking monster the better. He'd put up with the horrid taste if it meant John would not be put off by him.

John could be put off by many things, but despite what Sherlock thought, he was fully prepared to have Sherlock suck his blood. Besides the weakness afterwards, it was completely pleasant. The first several moments before Sherlock's medicinal saliva kicked in might not be for anyone else, but for John, he was getting needles shoved in his neck and his lifeblood taken out of him. If that wasn't enough for a healthy kick of adrenaline, he didn't know what was. "Sherlock, that's what boyfriends do."

Sherlock cracked a bit of a smile. "Is that what boyfriends do? Feed you up?" He stood from his seat and eyed John up and down John, his smile now a smirk. "Is that what you are, then? A boyfriend? I must admit I have never had cause to use the term, in regards to myself." Was it a bit too early to mess with John? It was just too much fun. "I could find myself quite enjoying it, though." He licked his lips, once, a suggestive motion he had picked up years and years ago when he'd been learning how to seduce.

John watched his tongue and blushed again, returning his attention forcefully to his eggs, which were runny and burning at the same time. Normally John was a good cook, but Sherlock was distracting. "What would you like to call us, then? Lovers? After three days? Bondmates? Life-Partners?" It all sounded just a bit ludicrous. "I would have thought that boyfriend was a romantic step up from 'flatmate' and 'fuck buddies'." He shook his head and put his ruined eggs on his plate anyway. He had to eat some of them. IT was the principle of the thing. In the meantime he made toast so he didn't die of hunger.

Sherlock chuckled softly under his breath, pleased that John had switched from the topic of his diet to what they were going to call this...thing...between them. "Boyfriends is fine. A bit immature, but you are correct in your justification." It was ludicrous. Sherlock knew intimately how lidicrous it was. He'd grown up with stories of bondmates and he'd known then, at a very young age, that it would never happen to him. The whole idea of him bonding to anyone, let alone someone like John, was ludicrous. He leaned against the wall to watch John smear jam over his toast.

John thought it over pensively while he prepared his breakfast and then sat down. Finally he said, "You can call us bondmates to other vampires, since that's technically what we are, but not ever with humans around. Alright?" When John fell in love with Sherlock as well, then they could be lovers. John hoped that day would come, actually. He looked forward to it. He took a bite from his toast, chewed, and swallowed. He hadn't forgotten Sherlock's diet at all, he'd just been trying to get Sherlock a little less defensive. "So. How often, Sherlock? And when was the last time?" If possible, John intended for the next time to be him.

"I do not speak to other vampires, John. I do not even converse with my brother but once every few years." He frowned at John bringing the diet back up. Damn. "Once a week, usually. I fed the night you and I met. The flask and thermos are just for if I get…a bit peckish...Plus it is nice to have some on hand, just in case. Other times it is twice a week. It depends, really. If I am running about after idiots, then of course I get hungry, much like a human." No matter what he said he would not be feeding from John. Most boyfriends did not drain their partners of their lifeblood, and so he would endeavor to be like most boyfriends. Sherlock had never done the relationship thing before. He certainly didn't want to muck this up.  He'd lie about his hunger first.

John nodded. "So we'll call it Tuesday, then." He said, planning for two days in the future, and then thought it over. "Or until we can't keep our hands off each other. Whichever happens first." He had an idea that it might very well be in the next quarter hour, much less Tuesday. "How does that sound to you? I shouldn't be too overloaded that day, so I'm not worried about fatigue. Not sure I can fully manage once a week, though. Not for an extended time. Perhaps every other week? Is that agreeable?" He wanted to be a good bondmate. He couldn't tell what Sherlock was thinking, couldn't locate him, couldn't KNOW what Sherlock's kind did to show love or affection or lust or whatever, but he could do this, so he would, to his fullest extent. John didn’t want to muck this up either.

Sherlock nodded, having no plans to follow through on John's offer. "Every other week is fine." Even though he wouldn't be biting John, he had to protest, "You really don't have to do this, you know. We can just go on like a normal couple. You do not need to bare your throat for me." Even though the idea of John baring anything for Sherlock was intensely arousing and not something he needed to be thinking about when he was standing in the kitchen in a pair of tight trousers. Speaking of, he needed to go take a shower anyway. Perhaps he'd make it a very warm one...

John shook his head. "I want to. Don't kid yourself- We won't be a normal couple no matter what we do. It's rather dumb to try and conform to any other standard. We should make our own way." He wanted to be the best bondmate he could so that he fulfilled Sherlock's needs, rather than to impress other vampires. "A day of weakness every fortnight is a small price to pay to have a healthy, happy boyfriend." He said as though the matter was closed, not thinking that Sherlock would refuse him.

Sherlock simply nodded before pushing off of the wall. "I believe I'll go take a shower now." He nodded once more in a goodbye and turned to make his way to the bathroom, one hand already popping the top button of his shirt open before he'd even left the kitchen. Once in the room he slipped out of his clothes and proceeded to take himself in hand under the warm cascade of water. All this unresolved tension was winding him up tighter than he could ever remember. For a moment his mind flashed, giving him just a glimpse of a man with John's eyes and John's dishwater hair, but with a mustache and a very, very old manner of speaking. Sherlock blinked and shook his head. That was...interesting.

John nodded, since he believed the case to be closed, and let Sherlock proceed with his morning, wondering vaguely if he'd been any more comfortable under the afghan. His eyes stuck to Sherlock's collar like glue as he unbuttoned, until Sherlock was gone from sight. John ran a hand through his hair and tucked in to breakfast. Not jumping Sherlock's bones. Easier said than done, and even easier for the human than it was for the vampire.

The man in Sherlock's head had a kind but conspiratorial smirk on his face as he tilted his head back just the slightest bit. It wasn't just looking up at Sherlock's impressive height, though, because he also tipped his head slightly to the side. No, he wasn't adjusting to get a better look at Sherlock. He was giving Sherlock a better view of his own neck.

Sherlock's breath caught. His hand tightened on himself. For the moment he didn't worry about wondering what in the world was happening inside his head. He focused instead of that smirk, and that throat being bloody well _offered_ to him. Sherlock was only half aware of his fangs lengthening to rest against his bottom lip. Besides just the image of this strange man, Sherlock felt emotions that he knew couldn't be his and most certainly weren't John's. It felt like love. A very soft, friendly love. Sherlock's hand worked faster.

The flashback only lasted for the briefest of moment, only that nanosecond of sight, but Sherlock was observant enough that that was all he needed to paint it in vivid colors. The man, on closer inspection, didn't actually look much like John, save his coloring. The expression on his face was one that was easy to imagine on Sherlock's new flatmate as well. And okay, so his slightly fuller than normal lower lip was entirely the same, but... Anyway, completely coincidental resemblance aside, the man's blue eyes were twinkling with amusement as well as affection, eyebrows raised with good emotion, and the strong column of his tanned neck was open fully to Sherlock by the end of that moment, adam's apple bobbing slightly. Along with the sights and the emotions came the slight rough memory of stubble on Sherlock's cheeks.

Sherlock finished up rather quickly after that, allowing the water to clean up the mess he had made, and washed himself up just as quickly. As he was about to turn off the faucet he remember that he had forgotten to grab a towel. Damn. He had two options. One, he could risk it and attempt to make his way to his bedroom through the cold flat while snatching a towel along the way. Or, he could ask John to bring him one. Sherlock didn't want to go with either option. In the end he sighed, flicked off the water, and raised his voice to call out, "John! Could you perhaps bring me towel? I seem to have forgotten one."

John’s ears perked up as he heard his name called, and he listened closely to Sherlock's request. John had seen enough pornography to know where this was going. "Right. Sure." He said, getting up and fetching a towel for him. The entire time his mind was focused on the idea of all of Sherlock's white skin, all perfect and bare and, fuck, oh fuck, not good, he knew exactly where this was going and- by the time he opened the door and, pointedly not looking, shoved a towel in, he was bright red over his face and straight down his neck. It didn't help that by not looking at Sherlock, he looked right into the mirror and directly at Sherlock, and the entire bare length of him. "So you do have a reflection." He said in a tight voice.

Sherlock very hastily wrapped the towel around his waist, fingers stiff as they tried to form a knot. His cheekbones were dusted with red and he cleared his throat. "Could've just tossed it in and shut the door," He told John, his voice a bit high. He reflexively glanced at the mirror, the pink in his cheeks intensifying as he caught John's eye. His own quickly darted away. "Very sorry. Should have remembered. And yes, I do in fact have a reflection." He cleared his throat again, his adams apple bobbing. Sherlock's curls were for once firmly tamed, dripping down in straight lines along his head. He was rather forcibly reminded of just what he had been doing moments ago in this shower.

John huffed. "I didn't realize that in a moment I'd be staring in at you starkers if I had my head facing the wall!" He said, trying to defend himself, though now he DID just shut the door. It made him wonder, though. Sherlock did suck blood, he did have some hypnotic powers, and he was immortal...What other bits of vampire lore fit, and which didn't? "So, do you sleep in a coffin? Afraid of the sun?  Hang upside down? Snatch up damsels in distress? I already know you don't live in a remote castle. Do you turn into a bat?" He stopped, covering his mouth with a hand in mock horror. "Don't tell me you sparkle."

Sherlock wrapped the towel a bit more firmly about his lower half and stepped out, whipping the door open with an indignant look on his face. "Of course I don't sparkle! Do you know how mortifying it was when Molly asked me that?! That damned book series. I'd break my ban on murder just to find that insane author..." He grumbled and pushed past John to stalk in to the bedroom across the hall. "I don't sleep in a coffin, or hang upside down. I haven't snatched any damsels in centuries, and I'm not afraid of the sun per say. It is just painful." He lifted his voice so that John could hear him through the closed door while he towel dried his hair and threw on a pair of trousers and a shirt he'd grabbed out at random - ah, a white one. Sherlock exited the room again once he was properly attired.

John was waiting expectantly for him outside. There was a question Sherlock hadn't answered yet. John knew he'd heard him, Sherlock heard EVERYTHING. So if he wasn't answering there was a reason for it. An interesting reason, he'd wager. Once he stepped out of the room, John reached out and grasped his upper arm, stopping him where he stood. Mischief danced in the doctor's eyes. "You didn't say if you turned into a bat or not." John reminded, knowing that Sherlock had avoided it for a reason. He hoped he wasn't overstepping his bounds with this one.

Sherlock sighed, shoulders slumping a bit. "I don't. It's possible. But I don't." Sherlock felt no need to mention that it was because the form was just too ridiculous. Mummy used to coo and proclaim him 'cute'. Sherlock would never, ever willingly enter that state ever again.  John would not be seeing that. Sherlock decided to swiftly move along the subject so he didn't focus on that. "Pure, undiluted silver burns. It can kill. Garlic is repulsive to us and if you eat any I would rather starve before drinking from you. Does that answer all of your questions as to my nature, John?" Sherlock shifted from foot to foot while he was in his grip. Sherlock wasn't offended by the questions, or annoyed by them, but it was so completely odd to be speaking out loud about this in the middle of the day, standing just outside his door. These were things not to be spoken of, and yet here he was, spouting it off to appease John's curiosity. He had a niggling feeling that he had done this once before, but that was stupid. Even Molly, his confidant in this day and age, didn't know half of the things he'd just revealed to John.

John could sort-of tell. That all of this was not really for human ears, or if a human did hear it, it was completely out of the ordinary. Sherlock was spilling all of his secrets right here and now, and John knew then that Sherlock was  being completely transparent with him now. Honest, like he'd asked. John let his grip on Sherlock slide down, until he was clasping hands with the man. No intertwined fingers, no higher meaning, just a thank you. John was glad he knew about the things that could harm Sherlock. "Not quite. Your immortality. How old are you, and compared to most vampires, is that old, or young? How do vampires procreate? Is it just sex, like humans, or can you change others into vampires as well, and if so, how? Have you ever changed anyone, and if so why? What else can kill you?" Now his eyes flicked up to him from where they'd been in the corner as he concentrated. "When two vampires are bonded, do they mate for life? Every time?"

Sherlock squeezed John's hand, just once, before dropping it. His eyes darted off to the side and away from John's. Sherlock didn't like talking about this. Not at all. But he'd promised. "I am several years over 600, John. I'm not young, nor am I too old. A young vampire is a couple hudred years. An old vampire with a lot of power would be one who is 2,000. I've met but one like that." He bit his lip. Every instinct inside of him was telling him to shut up, was practically shouting at him. He plowed on, "Someone like me, who was born to it, need only be conceived in the normal sexual manner. To turn a human, however, you must drain them almost completely of their blood and then feed them yours. It's a process that takes several nights. You have to bury the human and then stay with them until they arise. That is where the lore comes from of vampires sleeping in coffins, because often the maker would rest in one while they waited." Sherlock swallowed, his unease now evident on his face. "Fire kills us, as does standing in sun unprotected for too long. Before I leave every day I coat myself in sunscreen. Decapitation works. Our bodies are composed the same as humans, so a stake through the heart kills us just as well as it would kill a human." And finally the last bit. "Every time. Unless one dies." Sherlock's shoulders now had a very defeated look to them.

The more Sherlock told him, the more and more John wanted to thank him, but somehow that seemed... Inappropriate. Instead, John said softly, "All of this knowledge is safe with me, of course. You can trust that I won't be shouting it from the heavens. Or using it to kill you, for that matter." John realized then that if things got to be too much for him, murder might be the only viable way out. John had killed before, but never murder, in cold blood, never someone who was... Who could be, a good man. Never someone who loved him. The thought made him want to be sick, and that came out loud and clear to Sherlock over the bond, even if the thoughts that had ledto it didn't.  John felt confident that Sherlock wouldn't be turning him any time soon, though, and that was comforting. As for the bonds being lifelong, permanent, every time, until death... Until John's inevitable death... John closed his eyes with a bit of defeat as well, and decided to push on. He still had a few more questions, but he thought first he would try and lighten things up a bit. "So, you can be killed by prolonged exposure to the sun, eh? So was Michael Jackson a vampire?"

Sherlock flinched visibly at the wave of John's sickened emotions. His body jerked back and out of John's reach before he'd thought about it. Sherlock's mind raced, trying to place what bit that he'd just told him would have caused that reaction. Sherlock coughed and tried in vain to pretend that he hadn't just flipped out for seemingly no reason. "I don't know about a vampire, but that thing certainly couldn't have been human. I wouldn't claim him as my kindred any more than I think a lot of humans would claim him."

John could tell something wasn't right, though, and it wasn't that Sherlock was offended by him bringing up the King of Pop.  That Sherlock was bothered by something was pretty obvious. "Sherlock, what are you doing?" He asked, trying to figure out what he might have said to set Sherlock off. Then he realized that perhaps it might have been what he'd felt. Well, wasn't that odd. That Sherlock could be put off by his very feelings. "Hey, whatever it is, you're taking it out of context." He said with a frown, stepping forward to try and get Sherlock's mind off of it. He didn't know what Sherlock had reacted to but he knew that he hadn't felt anything negative towards Sherlock or his kind.

Sherlock closed his eyes and drew in two deep breaths. When he opened his eyes again he was perfectly calm, the normal cool mask back in place. If he was going to react like that every time he felt any negative emotions from John, he'd go mad. Sherlock would have to tighten up his control, learn to show even less of the little bit of emotions he allowed. "It's fine. I am fine." Sherlock looked down at John and for the first time thought, 'dangerous'. Not many things were a worry for Sherlock because of his abilities, but John Watson was a very dangerous man to him. No one else seemed to drag his unwanted feelings to the surface all the time.

John huffed. "It's obviously not fine. It wasn't just a little tick, you practically jumped away from me!" Sherlock's masks were impenetrable, which scared the shit out of him, quite honestly. This time he knew something was wrong because Sherlock had been so bothered a moment before, but if something else was seriously, stupidly wrong and Sherlock hid it behind that face, John would never, ever know. Meanwhile, Sherlock would always know when there was something up with John. "If it was my feelings, Sherlock, know that they weren't about you. You were just honest with me about all of that vampire stuff, now I'll be honest for you: If you bother me, you'll know about it. Right now is not one of those times. You're a vampire. It'll take time to get used to, but I've accepted it. I already know that you aren't a murderer, and that is really the only thing that might have turned me off, is the immorality of it all. And you're not like that."

It hadn't been about him? Hm, how narcissistic he seemed, then. Sherlock just nodded, still keeping his face locked down. It wasn't so much a mask as it was how he looked to everyone but John. Even from the start, even unconsciously, he'd let a bit of warmth seep on to his voice and in to his voice when he'd met John. "Alright. I believe you." He paused for a moment before continuing, voice and face still set, "...John, you must know that I am not completely innocent in matters of immorality. You say I am not a murderer, but I have in fact killed before..." Was this it? The bit that sent John running for the hills?

John shook his head. "So have I." He said, and, for just a moment, Sherlock could feel that sickness again. "But you don't kill now. Haven't for forty years. And I can tell it's not just a phase, Sherlock, you're disgusted by the idea of killing someone just for sport. You don't just murder for fun. You don't even murder to survive, which is much, much different. If you have killed in the past..." John closed his eyes and shook his head. "I can tell that you wouldn't kill again without a reason." He said, finally, trying to explain his own set of morals to Sherlock.

Sherlock understood. His face thawed, just a bit. That flash of sickness had been directed at John himself. Sherlock didn't want John to feel that way. "No. I wouldn't.  It's wasteful and pointless." He lifted a hand and lightly brushed his fingers across John's cheek. "I cannot help but feel I am getting the better out of this deal." John was going to keep him human, as ridiculous as that sounded. He would be the one to hold Sherlock back when he did things a bit not good, Sherlock could see it now. And what would John get out of it? He would get a bit of physical affection he could have certainly found anywhere - he was not unattractive nor undesirable - and perhaps some rather good shags. Sherlock felt suddenly unworthy.

John would have preferred if that were the case, really. If it was just a mutual benefit sort of thing, like most relationships were, and John could duck out when it started to feel a little old. But John knew that Sherlock wasn't merely a very nice looking and good at kissing convenience. Sherlock, and the excitement of him, and of his life, and even of hi inhuman nature, was enough to Keep John from doubting. From doubting that life was worth living, from doubting that he was useful. And now that Sherlock was in love with him... Would be, for the rest of his life, John knew that he needed that too. To remind him just how necessary he was. Without that, it would be a short trip to the morgue, he was sure. John swallowed. "If we're lucky you'll feel that way for a long time." He said softly.

Sherlock opened his mouth to reply - a denial? An agreement? Who knows what it might have been - when the sound of his mobile chiming from the living room ripped through the relative silence of the flat. Sherlock's head tipped slightly to the side, his eyes narrowed. That was the second time in as many days that he had heart that ringtone. His hand fell from John's face to latch on to his hand. By the time Sherlock had dragged John in, the phone had stopped ringing. It chimed as Sherlock picked it up, signifying a voicemail. Sherlock punched in the code, and then punched in the button to set it to speaker phone. Mycroft's posh, calm voice floated from the speakers, "My, you have been busy, haven't you, brother? We have things to discuss now, Sherlock. Come alone. You know where to find me." Sherlock snapped the phone shut with an inhuman snarl.

John let Sherlock drag him along, knowing that whatever was going on, it must be important. He didn't recognize the ring tone of course, but he recognized the voice.  "Is that your brother?" He asked, though the question was a little inane. "Well, what the hell does he want?" John couldn't help it. He was rather confused. He swallowed, then. "Whatever it is, I'm going with you." He was not about to back down, even in the face of more vampires that were probably not half as morally sound as Sherlock was...And that was saying something. Still, he wanted to see what the others were like. He even, in a very silly way, wanted to meet Sherlock's family, for real.

Sherlock answered without looking away from the phone, where he held it in his grip as if it might grow fangs of its own and bite him. "Of course you are, John, don't be daft. Do you still have that gun I gave you? I have bullets for it in my room if you are in need." He finally looked up from the phone. His eyes were like silver sharps of ice. There was no doubt in his mind what this meeting of Mycroft's would be about. His lips curled back in a very slight snarl. If that meddling fool thought he could dictate his life...He had a very interesting surprise coming. It was sheer stupidity to mess with a bonded vampire's mate.

John swallowed nervously, but he felt certain pleasure filling him up, clear as day. Right, it was certainly daft to think that John wasn't coming with Sherlock just because it was dangerous. He belonged there, after all, by Sherlock's side when the going got tough. Even though he was afraid, it felt so fucking good to belong that he could have literally jumped for joy. "Silver, do you mean?" He asked, just to make sure. He had lead bullets, plenty of them, and they would fit with the beautiful firearm that Sherlock had given him, but he wasn't sure if lead was the right tool for this particular job. Did Sherlock want him to be prepared to kill vampires, just in case? Well, he had two guns, now. It wasn't if they were large. He could pack both.

Sherlock nodded. "Yes, silver. I've made some and stored them away myself for years. Never had much need, but best to have on. I have no clan any longer, so I could not rely on them on the off chance that I needed protection." He twisted around to look John in the eye. "Are you prepared for this? It could be just a simple talk. It could be walking in to an ambush. You must be ready at all times for violence." It wasn't a question of John not coming. But if he needed a moment, Sherlock would give him it.

John didn't need a moment. There was no point to stalling. John could fully compose himself while he went to fetch protection, and then again while they went wherever they were going. "I'm prepared." He said. He wasn't as fragile as Sherlock thought he was. It took a certain kind of man to invade Afghanistan, after all, and another entirely to miss it. "Let me just go grab them, then." He said, and gave Sherlock's hand a squeeze before he disappeared into Sherlock’s room for bullets, and then up the stairs to his own room to retrieve both guns, his silver, and Sherlock's an almost black shade of gunmetal. John looked them each over for a moment to make sure they were in good working order. Side by side, they were a beautiful sight. Then he tucked them each in his waistband and pulled his jumper over top.

Sherlock took the time John went to retrieve his weapons to shrug on his coat and scarf. Then he closed his eyes and simply breathed. If this went sour they might have to fight their way out of Mycroft's clutches. There was no question that Sherlock would give John up or allow him to be killed. They also couldn't just refuse the summons. Mycroft would send someone to collect them. In the event that they did have to fight...Sherlock drew in another breath. Inhale, exhale. John would have to be prepared not only to fight but to witness Sherlock entirely losing himself to the vampiric nature. It'd be unavoidable. Fighting a human was one thing, simple enough to keep his control. Another vampire would be cause to sink intently in to his own blood-thirsty nature.

John shrugged on his own coat and met with Sherlock back in the living room. "We're ready to go, then?" John was scared shitless, yes, but he was also excited. His blood was boiling, crashing through his veins. It was wonderful. John felt so very alive. In comparison, John could see that Sherlock was tense and upright, and why shouldn't he be?  His estranged brother was calling for him, and his fragile lover was coming with. John thought that maybe he could use a pep talk. Then again, he wasn't sure what to say. That everything would be alright? Maybe it wouldn't. That they'd get out of this just fine? He couldn't ensure that either. Instead he stepped close and stood up onto his toes and gave Sherlock a  short peck on the lips, followed by a small, wily smile. Amusement and camaraderie and just a hint of mischief. It might almost be called a smirk. "Well?"

Sherlock blinked, his body relaxing marginally and a slow smile curling his lips. It still surprised him every time John gave some physical affection. Even if he hadn't been a vampire, Sherlock knew he would have all but screamed "PERSONAL SPACE. DO NOT TOUCH" to everyone with eyes. That John would ignore that was very...touching, he supposed. "Let’s go, then." He tipped his head and headed for the stairs. Halfway down he almost shyly slid his hand in to John's. Sherlock was relatively confident in his sexual abilities, but this casual touching was still odd for him. The entire way down the stairs and to the road, though, Sherlock had an odd feeling of nostalgia. He couldn't explain it. John's smirk...It had looked just like that man's in his little fantasy in the shower that he still couldn't explain. He really should not be thinking of this when he was on the verge of meeting his very dangerous brother for the first time in years, but Sherlock couldn't push it out of his mind.

John wasn't worried about touching Sherlock. They were boyfriends now, and more importantly, bondmates. John was pretty sure it would be more out of the ordinary if he DIDN'T touch Sherlock. Anyway, it was just a little kiss. Not a big number. He hadn't even laid his hands on Sherlock. Though, now that Sherlock's gloved hand was in his own, John gripped him tight. Sherlock wasn't alone in this, and whether that was a good thing or a bad thing, Sherlock should know that John wasn't going to betray or abandon him. He kept his hand firmly in Sherlock's even as they got into the back of the shiny black car Mycroft had sent for them.


	12. Chapter 12

Sherlock lost the semi-relaxed posture he had been maintaing inside the flat when he caught sight of the car, and even further when they slid in and found the woman on the Blackberry tapping away and completely ignoring them. "Anthea, I presume?" His hand tightened on John's as if in childish protest. If she worked for Mycroft, she most likely already knew what this was about. Their hand holding wouldn't be a surprise to her.

She lifted her eyes at them, and then looked down at their joined hands, before returning her attention to her Blackberry, completely unamused. "Mhmm. Mycroft isn't very happy with you, as you can imagine." She said, typing away. "Two meetings in as many days? He's a busy man, Sherlock. He could do without issues of this nature distracting him." John frowned, and squeezed Sherlock's hand even tighter. To think he'd thought her attractive! Well, okay, she WAS attractive, but she was quite the bitch too, wasn't she? Had to be to be working for Mycroft, right? 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "If he is so busy then I see no need for these meetings at all." He stretched his legs out in the seat, preparing for a long ride spent in near silence. What else did they have to say to each other? She was Mycroft's right hand, but she wasn't Mycroft. Sherlock made sure his mask was like ice. He tried as hard as he could to mentally shout at John that any signs of weakness were to be smothered and suppressed, but the bond still wouldn't work that way.

John knew that well enough, and looked out the window, taking the extra time to steel himself in case something happened, in case he needed the extra confidence. John knew that Sherlock could feel him, feel his bursts of fear and excitement and determination, all bubbling up inside him in a very human way. Anthea sighed laboriously. "This is important, Sherlock, or he wouldn't have bothered. This threatens everything, don't you understand? If it weren't more important than everything else he wouldn't bother. But that doesn't mean that this isn't extremely bothersome, you and your infantile - Well, everything." It was quite obvious that she didn't really approve of Sherlock.

Sherlock's lips curled back, baring his teeth at the other vampire in a gesture that signified she should make something of it if she wanted criticize him. John got his first real look at Sherlock acting the part. Despite her working for Mycroft, Anthea was not a part of Sherlock's clan - even if he'd cast himself out of it. Most vampires didn't interact with others of different clans because the need for confrontation was too great when there were disagreements. He would not lose himself and attack her, but nor would he sit idly by when she was offhandedly insulting him and John. Many others had bondmates. His just happened to be human. It was neither hers nor Mycroft's business.

She sat by prim and proper and ignored him completely. As much as they liked to consider themselves far removed from humanity, in a lot of ways they really had gone native, what with the rather smart outfit she was wearing to the blackberry in her hands to the cold and proper business persona they'd adopted. John could practically feel the tension radiating off of Sherlock, so he turned his head to see that feral snarl. It was definitely inhuman. It was also very- and this was conveyed clearly across the bond- impressive.

Sherlock's lips fell back over his teeth and he glanced over at John, blinking. John was impressed by his display? Well. That was...He'd have to remember that for later. Much later, when he was not thinking of his brother. Sherlock glanced away and to the windows, tracking where they were and which way they were heading. If his guess was correct, they would be to one of Mycroft's underground warehouses shortly. He idly wondered if it would even surprise Mycroft that he'd brought John along. He really should have known better.

Even if it would have surprised him, Anthea had already sent plenty of information to Mycroft with her handy little device. Mycroft would know that they were dealing with two obviously armed and dangerous adversaries. Even the human was packing, and it was easy to tell that he knew what he was doing.  Also, it wasn't that John was particularly impressed by Sherlock's teeth, even if his canines were unordinary in their size and length. Rather, he was impressed that Sherlock was standing up to her. It was admirable. When Sherlock glanced at him, John just gave him a little smile. Soon, they were driving into a tunnel, and from the tunnel, into a well-lit (you guessed it) warehouse. "Why does this feel so familiar?" John mused aloud, though he was really just taking the piss.

Sherlock smirked. "I don't know, John. Do you often find yourself abducted and dragged to random locations for conversations filled with thinly veiled threats? I must admit, it is not new to me." Sherlock pushed the door open as soon as the car pulled to a stop. He took note of his brother standing not far off, but after making sure he was alone, Sherlock immediately turned and offered a hand to help John out. He kept an eye on Anthea and allowed John to watch Mycroft while he had his back to the woman in the car. Sherlock made sure to keep a hold on John's hand once he'd gotten out of the car, even when they both stepped forward to greet his brother. "Hello, Mycroft. I can't say I'm pleased to see you."

John didn't consider his relationship with Sherlock to quite be at the PDA stage yet, even if it was only hand holding, but at this point it was necessary, not as a show of affection, but of solidarity. Even though he was diminutive compared to, well, everyone in the room (were vampires naturally taller? John knew that he was hardly below average for an adult English male), John's military straight back made him no less intimidating than the much taller vampire by his side. Even so, John's heart might has well have been hammering out of his chest, and all the Vampires in the room could hear it quite clearly.  Anthea walked to Mycroft's side and stood there, still absorbed in her blackberry. She had a bondmate of her own, one of Mycroft's powerful coworkers, but she didn't have the slightest bit of sympathy for Sherlock. John was, after all, a human. Maybe acceptable as a pet, but certainly not as a bondmate.

John ground his teeth a little. "Didn't you already prove me trustworthy? Your secret- or rather, his secrets- are safe with me. Though really, I couldn't give a toss if you trust me or not." John had a feeling that he was being a bit too adversarial, and that maybe he should leave the talking to Sherlock, but didn't he get a say in this? They were talking about HIM, after all. Really, though, Mycroft was a lot scarier than he let on, especially now that John knew he could dart forward at any moment and rip his throat out. Or Anthea. Or the driver. Or anyone else who might be lurking in the shadows. John's right hand tensed slightly, ready to grab for the gun in his waistband.

Mycroft's eyes slowly slid away from Sherlock to look at John as he spoke. His face took on the hint of disgust. As Anthea was thinking moments ago, a pet was one thing, but that his brother had actually gone and bonded with a human was an entire other. "I trusted you not to run screaming through the streets that we existed. I do not trust you with all of the knowledge you now possess." Mycroft looked back to his brother. "He cannot be allowed to live, Sherlock. Kill him and be done with it." His tone of voice did not change, as if he ordered deaths all the time. Well. He did. Sherlock took an aborted step forward, half in front of John. He did not even think about it. It was instinctual. Threats would not be tolerated. "No!" The word was a snarl around the fangs that had presented themselves in his rage. "I will not allow this, Mycroft. You can’t." Sherlock's grip on John's hand was now vice-like.

Oh, fuck. They actually planned to KILL him? Silver bullets or not they had two vampires on their side, if not more, and they were on home turf. He and Sherlock might be well and truly fucked. He thanked his lucky stars that he was a good shot, and moved behind Sherlock the tiniest bit, shifting away so that his shooting arm was hidden from view. He'd be ready for a fight if it came. He didn't particularly want it to come. He liked Sherlock quite a bit and he liked breathing even more, and he didn't want to lose either of those things today. Sherlock could feel the spike of fear in him, as well as the calm reaction to life threatening danger that had been programmed into him.

Mycroft simply sighed, standing up to his full height now. "Don't make this difficult. It's going to happen. You know as well as I that he simply knows too much." Sherlock snarled again, taking on a decidedly aggressive stance. "You will not kill my mate. You can not. You will kill me first if you are to do so at all." His mind was slowly slipping from its regular state to one desperate to protect its partner. Mycroft was honestly surprised to see it happen - not that he showed it. He had not really thought that Sherlock would react like this. If John had been a vampire, he could understand. Threatening another’s bondmate was considered the fastest way for a fight among their people. But John was only human. The bond shouldn't even connect both ways, just on Sherlock's end. Why was he reacting like this? "I am not going to kill you." Mycroft said wearily. "Just let us take care of this obvious security breach. The bond you have will dissolve once Doctor Watson is dead, and you can go on as you have. I won't even need to tell Mummy of this mishap." The only response he received was Sherlock now full out growling, a noise that rumbled low in his chest.

John had an inane moment when he thought it quite funny that Mycroft could say that he was about to kill him and use his proper title in the same breath. John didn't reach for his gun yet, not wanting all their cards to be on the table even if it was probably obvious he was armed. In the back of Sherlock's head there was a whirl of John's emotions. Fear was most apparent, followed by excitement, but John couldn't help but be ridiculously impressed by Sherlock. He seemed ready to strike at any moment, and John really had never felt safer with anyone by his side. Sherlock was about the farthest from human he could possibly be now, growling and poised like a predator, but that didn't bother John a bit. Sherlock was gorgeous this way, really. Powerful. Sherlock could feel how much John appreciated him, even in the middle of this clusterfuck.

Sherlock noted the appreciation in the back of his head and tucked it away for later. It was nice, and he'd examine it later, but currently all he could think of was tearing anyone who came near John in to little tiny pieces. Mycroft was tired of the displays. This needed to be handled, and it needed to be done with now. "Anthea." was all that was said. He knew she could make it to John. There were others waiting in the shadows to hold Sherlock while the job was done.

Anthea looked up from her blackberry, which she tucked safe into the back pocket of her dress pants, and then she lifted her eyes from beneath thick long lashes to Sherlock. In a moment she'd taken off towards them, quicker than John could see. John drew the gun then, but between Sherlock being in the way and how damn quick she moved, he couldn't get a clear shot at her, no matter how reflexively he acted. She wasn't aiming for Sherlock- she knew she'd get hurt if she did. Instead, she tried to dodge him, and go straight for John, teeth now bared completely and gleaming in the fluorescents.

At the same time two of the vampires in the shadows moved, aiming to grab at Sherlock's arms. One looped his through Sherlock's left. The other was promptly knocked to the ground with a backfist from Sherlock. He turned, lightning quick, and slammed the other one to the ground, his foot smashing down to shatter his collarbone. In the process his own shoulder popped from its socket from the man's grip on him.  He was older than all three of them, meaning he was much stronger, and on top of that he was backed by rage and the all consuming need to protect ones partner. The two did not stand a chance, really. By the time Anthea made it past he was open to full body tackle her out of her path. Almost immediately he lurched away, hunched down, knees and one hand touching the pavement, directly in front of John. The snarling and growling sound never stopped.

The whole exchange was so fast that John couldn't consciously follow it, but by the end he had the barrel of his gun pointed unfailingly at Anthea, where she lay snarling and defeated on the ground. Even as fast as she was, she wasn't faster than a silver bullet. John could hear the blood rushing in his ears, could feel his heart pumping blood all through him,  could even see his own chest heaving for much needed breath, and he'd hardly moved. He glanced around the scene, at the two thugs who had been disarmed, and then to Sherlock, guarding him and crouched like an animal waiting for a second chance to strike. "Jesus Christ." He said, not able to quite believe that Sherlock was capable of all that he'd just done. He'd taken out three other bloodthirsty monsters all by himself. The seriousness of the situation was not lost on John, who kept his gun steady on Anthea, chronic shaking in his hand completely gone.

Sherlock straightened slowly, never taking his eyes off Mycroft, who was the real threat in this situation. He trusted John with that gun; he could handle Anthea if she made another move. "I will kill them," His voice was soft, low, and dangerous, like the purring of a panther that was presiding over its steaming prey’s carcass. It was not so much a threat as a promise. If Mycroft insisted on attacking again, he would not hesitate to snap their necks. Survival of the fittest was deeply rooted in him, and it was idiocy to ignore it in a situation like this. "I will kill you. And then we will walk out of here and forget this happened." Mycroft's eyes were wide, so vast was his shock. Never had he actually expected Sherlock to fight like this. For a human. For anyone, at that. "Sherlock. Why?" He asked simply. Sherlock backed up ever so slightly so that his back was nearly touching John's. John could feel the heat from him. "You know why, brother. You were bonded once. Imagine, for just a moment, if someone had attacked her. Imagine what you would have done." The groaning from the unconscious man was the only sound for a moment besides the rapid breathing of John and Sherlock and Anthea's snarls.

Anthea hissed, and John's finger became a bit firmer on the trigger. How DARE Sherlock compare this human to Mycroft's former bonded!? Anthea didn't understand how this could be anything but a flight of fancy, even if Sherlock had just protected John with what had to be his life. John wanted to close his eyes and lean forward into Sherlock's back and rest and just enjoy the warmth and breathe him in, but he couldn't do that. They were both still in danger, and he had to keep his guard up. As much as he had nerves of steel, he was not exactly used to being lunged at by bloodthirsty creatures of the night.  Or being protected by them. He was going to need some tea when then returned home.

Mycroft's body tensed. That Sherlock would even bring up his late mate...But it made him pause to think for a moment. Sherlock was right. In this situation, Mycroft himself would have acted the exact same. He would have torn anyone limb from limb for threatening his lifemate. He took in the two of them, not just noting Sherlock's defensive posture but the way John leaned back in to him while still holding a straight arm out. He took in their body language. This was not a one way fancy. If it had been, the doctor would have been long gone the first time Mycroft had had him abducted. He would have turned the moment Anthea attacked, tried to flee the scene and never return to Sherlock's side. "Anthea," He called to the woman. "Collect those two idiots from the floor. Have them fired and replaced. I do not want anyone in my ranks that cannot even take care of someone Sherlock's age. We are leaving." Sherlock remained tense, but there was an intense feeling of relief crashing through him. "Why?" It was Sherlock's turn to ask. "You posed an interesting point." Mycroft answered simply, then addressed John, "I reiterate what I said before, Doctor Watson. If you hurt my brother or speak of anything he tells you, I _will_ end you, regardless of Sherlock's protests." Then he turned and walked away, much like he had the first time, as if this was all too dull for him to bear any longer.

John blinked. "I already told you I won't be telling anyone anything!” He called after him, just so Mycroft knew how ridiculous John thought he was. Anthea winced. Was her job in danger as well? She prayed that it wasn't. This job, at Mycroft's brilliant side, was what she lived for. Without a hint of fear of John's gun, she pushed herself up and pulled the two henchmen to their feet, ushering them into the car that they'd arrived in, and leaving Sherlock and John completely alone in the Warehouse. It wasn't moments before another car pulled up for them. Slowly, John lowered his gun, and looked at Sherlock, still breathing hard as if he'd run a marathon. "Christ. I hope your cases aren't like this." He said, actually intimidated by the proceedings. Even with flawless aim, he couldn't shoot anything that moved as fast as the Vampires did. If they'd really wanted to kill him, and Sherlock wasn't there to protect him, they could have.

Sherlock stared after Mycroft for a long moment, before glancing over at Anthea. The woman was occupied with shoving the other two around and scolding them. The threat of violence was gone, and Sherlock was finally coming down from the high of rage. He turned to John, eyes raking up and down. He was fine. They were both fine, in fact, and after a run in with Mycroft, that was a surprising thing. His body still felt tight and coiled, however, and he was all but shaking with pent up motion. Before he was even aware of making the decision to step forward, his hands were coming up to cup John's face tenderly, and he pressed in as close as possibly. He didn't care that there were others to witness this. He needed this to happen, or he felt he might go insane. Sherlock pressed his lips to John's own, surprisingly soft for all the emotion backing it. He pulled away, just to see if it was unwelcome, before pressing back, the kiss no longer as soft. His fear of John being injured, along with the anger he felt, began to spill out in to the kiss, making it rougher, more hurried. Sherlock pulled away agin, just long enough to press a kiss to the side of John's throat, and then his lips were back to John's own. He dragged his tongue along the seam of John's mouth, begging for entrance silently. 

John certainly wasn't prepared for it, but that didn't make it unwelcome. He leaned up into Sherlock on his toes again, throwing his arm around Sherlock's neck despite the gun he was still gripping in his hand. Fuck, Sherlock was passionate! And it made all the sense in the world that he was, he'd just fought off three goddamned vampires and saved John's life.  He deserved a damn good kiss to show him just how well he'd done. John kissed back, pressing his tongue into Sherlock's mouth and devoting his full attention to him. It wasn't like John didn't need his life affirmed as well, he'd almost died! Warm body and strong hands on him and needy lips were absolutely fantastic.

Sherlock ravaged John's mouth, exploring it like it was a science experiment and he had to have all of the data he could get out of it. His hands trailed down John's body until they could grip at his hips, fingers curling there like that was their rightful place, d he pressed his body even closer until they were aligned, chest to chest. After a moment he drew back, keeping his hands where they were. He was safe. John was safe and so, so alive. "I'm sorry," he apologized. Sherlock wasn't sure if he was talking about his insane brother, the attempt on his life, or the very sudden ravaging.

And John, who must have been completely insane, just smiled at him, still a little out of breath, and said, completely honestly, "Don't worry about." John certainly didn't mind the ravaging. As for Mycroft, he wasn't exactly Sherlock's to apologize for was he? Sherlock couldn't help it if he had a murderous immediate family. The death threat had been Sherlock's fault, more or less, but god he'd made up for that! He'd disabled three born killers and saved his life. If he held Sherlock responsible for that he'd be ungrateful. Instead of thinking about his apology at all, John leaned up and kissed him again, though this time it was quite a bit shorter than the previous kiss. "You were fantastic." He said, still smiling like a crazy person and meaning every word of it, meaning every breath. Not many people could say they had a boyfriend who would literally kill for them, with lightning quick speed and razor sharp teeth.

Sherlock smiled down at John, eyes and face finally thawing out from their hard lines. "You, as well." He, too, meant it completely, regardless of how insane it seemed to be complementing your boyfriend on how well he pulled a gun and aimed it at a woman, and for how well he handled being targeted by blood thirsty monsters with orders to kill him. Sherlock finally let his hands drop, but one pressed gently against John's chest, directly over his heart. "Shall we head home, then?" Sherlock could not stop smiling. It was an odd experience.

John gave a short laugh. "Really? I wish I could have been more useful." Really, Sherlock had not only done all the talking but all the fighting. He'd only been able to take aim at Anthea because Sherlock had gotten her on the ground. Of course, there was something to be said for not breaking down and having a panic attack just then, but that was rather lackluster of an achievement.  John let his arm drop away from Sherlock. He flicked the safety back on his gun and put it back in it's safe spot against the small of his back, and then placed his hand over Sherlock's, lacing their fingers. "Absolutely." John glanced at Mycroft's ride. "Want to get a cab? Maybe walk a bit first? I think we could both use a cool down, and I'm not exactly  keen on the idea of letting your brother drive us right now."

Sherlock nodded, squeezing his hand. For once the gloves he wore annoyed him. He would have liked to have skin on skin contact. "I was just thinking that, actually. I do not trust Mycroft enough to take his offer of a vehicle." Sherlock nodded his head to a side exit and started that way. Once they made it home he could really do with a drink. The physical activity and tapping in to his speed had drained him a bit, and he predicted this week would have been one where he would have fed twice instead of his usual once. But just the thought of that revolting thermos made him want to shudder.

John let the hands fall from his chest as they began their stroll, but he kept Sherlock's hand firmly in his own even as they made their way up some stairs and to the surface. He didn't have a clue where they were, but he figured Sherlock probably did. John was thinking he could use a drink, but not in the same way Sherlock was. He did have something else in mind, however. He wanted to get a little closer to Sherlock. He wanted to show his appreciation to everything he was and all the things he'd done. John was coming to realize more and more that Sherlock really did care about him, and there was something terribly romantic about watching your love interest incapacitating three dangerous opponents for the sake of your life. No wonder damsels in distress never declined their princes. John breathed deep of the fresh air, enjoying that he was still able to breathe, and for Sherlock's sake he was glad that it was overcast. Almost always was in London, of course.

Sherlock would like John getting closer to him rather a lot. The only problem would be if John got close in the physical sense. Sherlock was very thirsty at the moment, and he had plans to go straight home and force down some of that ammonia tasting, vile blood in the fridge. He still would not be drinking from John. There was no need to weaken him. It did sound rather good at the moment, however. Sherlock knew he'd have to feed in the next couple of days. He wasn't looking forward to it. Sherlock inhaled as well, taking in all of the scents that he'd learned so intimately over the years. He knew exactly where they were. "Are you quite sure you're alright? I think it's polite to ask that after a situation like that." Really, he knew John was, Sherlock simply wanted to hear his voice more.

 John shrugged. "I'm a little bit shaken- Life threatening situations lead to one hell of an adrenaline rush- but I can handle it just fine." John's breathing had already slowed and he was feeling quite tired, but they would be home soon and all would be well. "That thing you did back there? That was…good, yeah." He said, swinging their joined hands between them a little. "Very cool, actually, would have been impressed even if you hadn't saved my life." The teeth and the growling and everything was, well, very scary, really, good when you were meant to be fighting someone off.  Knowing Sherlock was beside him, this Sherlock who would do anything to protect him, made him feel outrageously safe. Like he had a little guardian angel watching over him. A sexy one who also liked to bite things. And happened to be his flatmate.

Sherlock glanced down at their swinging hands, brow furrowing a bit, before answering. "I'm glad it didn't, ah, put you off. The growling and such tends to put people off." He paused, wondering if the next bit he was going to say would be inappropriate, "I have actually had to glamour several people who have heard me accidently do it in the...heat of the moment...and they panicked." Sherlock frowned. That had rather ruined the moment very quickly.

John couldn't help the little laugh that erupted out of him at Sherlock’s misfortune. "While you were getting off with them?" He asked, a great big grand shiny smile adorning his face.  He couldn't get the idea out of his head, and it was, well, ridiculous at best. "Good to know that's coming though. As for the growling, I don't mind." He shook his head. “t makes you look scarier. A lot scarier, I mean. I like that."  He gave another little carefree laugh. "At least we know that you won't have to glamour anyone because of it from now on, huh?" He asked with another smile up at Sherlock.

Sherlock shook his head, but a smile graced his lips. John liked it when he was 'scary'? "You are such an odd one, Doctor Watson. I have never known anyone quite like you." Again, there was that flash that he could not explain, of that other man smiling at him and of a voice eerily like his own saying words almost the exact same. Sherlock's unease returned full force, but he desperately shoved it away. But he couldn't think of just how John wouldn't mind his growling in bed, because those were not appropriate thoughts to be having in public. They were more difficult to shove aside. He would certainly be up for showing John just what kind of noises he made in bed when he was not restraining himself for normal humans- Ah, no, not thinking about that. "Indeed," He answered, voice not giving away that he was picturing John up against a wall yet again. "You have just watched me incapacitate three other vampires, I don't think I will worry unduly about whatever noises I happen to make that might scare you off."

John couldn't seem to stop his little chuckles. "Yes, that was quite scary too." He said,  feeling a little delirious. Sherlock had been impressive. There was no other way to say it. It was a deep evolutionary thing. Sherlock was fearsome, had shown his whole intimidating hand like a proverbial peacock, and John had taken the bait, fully enthralled by Sherlock's bright colors. If Sherlock's particular noises in bed reminded him of his show of strength that night, he wouldn't exactly be put off by it.  Quite the opposite, probably.  And truth be told, Tuesday or not, John was thinking that the 'unable to keep their hands off of each other' phase might be coming up sometime soon. Wall-pushing-up-against and growling seemed to be in their immediate future. "Scaring me off might be impossible at this point." He said. After you were willing to offer your blood to someone and stand behind them, it really wasn't a matter of being scared anymore.

Sherlock glanced down at him as they walked and noted the signs that said John was telling the truth. John really didn't think Sherlock would be able to scare him off. That was rather nice. His voice was light when he replied, but his thoughts were much darker. "Oh, give me time, John. If you only knew the thoughts I have had." Chief among them were the many, many things he wanted to do to John that might be classified as a 'bit not good'. Without any idea of how the common psyche worked, he wasn't really sure what was fine and what wasn't. Would John be frightened if Sherlock told him he wanted to crack open his skull to find out what made him tick? Would he be scared off if Sherlock showed him just how badly he wanted to mark him? That last bit was at least a little normal, Sherlock knew, because he had seen couples out with visible hickies. But a hicky was not what Sherlock wanted. He wanted to claim John's throat and rip his nails down his back, to bruise his hips with his hands, to completely and utterly claim John until anyone looking at any bit of John's body saw "SHERLOCK'S" as plain as day.

In general, John would consider anything that killed him to be 'a bit not good'. As for Sherlock wanting to mark him... Well, that could be arranged. John would be up for some of thethings Sherlock had in mind. John was certainly up for being a little rough- or a lot rough- and having red marks over him exclaiming to the world that he was well loved and had lots of kinky sex all the time wasn't exactly a hardship. He also wasn't opposed to tattoos, if the black ink emblem proclaiming him as a member of Her Majesty's Armed Forces on his upper left arm.  Of course, he'd have to know that this was going to work before he got anything of Sherlock's on him in ink. "Well, I suppose that's true." He conceded. Sherlock was a vampire, afterall. He was probably terribly frightening. "Are we close to home?" John asked, still not quite knowing where he was. "Perhaps we can get a cab from here."

Sherlock lifted a hand and signaled to a cabbie. "That would be best, yes." He slid in first and gave the man their address. Sherlock had no way of knowing that John would not object to most of that, and so he spent the entire cab ride worry those and various other topics over in his head. All of this unresolved sexual tension was winding him up, and he was seriously considering asking John if he would be up for a shag when they got home. But John wanted to go slow. He needed to remember that. Sherlock gave himself a little mental shake. At the same time, even if John were up for it, his thirst might make it impossible. Sexual activity almost always triggered the fangs to lengthen - in fact, before the children have completely matured, it isn't an unheard of thing to see the fangs present themselves and then see the child in question quickly run out of the room in embarrassment. Often it was the boys - and the natural course of action after that would be to bite your partner. And Sherlock had already decided there'd be none of that. The urge to sleep with John warred against the urge to bite him. Sherlock honestly didn't know at this point which would win out first.

John quite made that decision for him. They sat together in the cab, John not bothering to sit far away from Sherlock or pretend that they weren't attached at the hip. Once they'd been seated long enough to get their bearing in the cab, and give John a chance to take a deep breath and calm himself, John pulled his hand away from Sherlock's, and instead rested it warm on the inner side of Sherlock's thigh. It wasn't close enough to anything critical to be indecent, but it was still quite intimate, and very very suggestive. John raised blue eyes to Sherlock, wondering if Sherlock could read the promise in them. Really, he probably didn't have to. His own feelings of anticipation were probably getting through to him loud and clear.

Sherlock's eyes darted down to the hand, then back up to lock on to John's own. Sherlock swallowed, the sound suspiciously loud in the quiet of the cab. Oh. Ohh, this was going to be a hard night. No pun intended, he thought dryly. He was not going to deny John. He would quite happily accept the turn of this evening, but he wasn't sure how much he could enjoy it when he was constantly reminding himself not to latch on to John's neck and drink until he was full. Hopefully when they got home the arousal that was already building would distract him. In answer Sherlock took the hand on his thigh in to his own and slowly rotated it until it was palm up. Sherlock's leather covered fingers stroked lightly at John's wrist, a teasing motion, before he curled them around John's.

John shivered, a real, full body affair. The warm leather wasn't a sensation he could ignore, no matter how light it was. John looked out the window, and now saw that they were still several minutes from home. With a glance at the cabbie, he shifted closer to Sherlock and leaned into him, pressing his face against Sherlock's, nose tickling the barest hints of sideburns, and his breath coming warm over Sherlock's jaw. Luckily for Sherlock, John wasn't touching his neck in any obscene ways.  "When we get home..." He murmured. "I'm going to have to thank you properly." Now it was really more of a purr than anything. "Any requests?"

Sherlock bit down on the soft moan he wanted to give. Sherlock's own eyes darted to the cabbie almost frantically. Sherlock noted John's reaction to the touch at his wrist - was it just the touch? Ah, no, clearly it was the leather. He would have to remember that. Was it some sort of kink of John's? Sherlock had several pairs of leather gloves, if that would please John. There was even a pair of leather trousers he'd worn for a case once in the back of his closet...Sherlock swallowed again and focused on the here and now. It wasn't that hard, what with John leaning against him. "I was right, as usual." He turned his head slightly so that their lips were on the same level, just barely touching at the corner. "You are indeed going to kill me." Sherlock brushed his cheek against John's, almost like an animal. "No requests. Do as you will to me, John." _To_ , he made sure to say. Not _for_.

If John had a leather kink, he didn't know about it. All he knew was that the all at once smooth and rough texture, all warm from Sherlock's flesh, and the tiny tickling sensation was enough to make him wish they were already home.  "I'm just trying to beat you to the punch." He said breathlessly, thinking that Sherlock was going to kiss him, and then feeling his pulse quicken when he didn't. "As for doing what I please to you..."  John pressed his cheek back against Sherlock, wanting to feel his warmth as well. Sherlock could feel the barest hint of John's stubble against his cheek. The last stubble Sherlock had felt on his face was..."Yes. I will." A slightly rotund man stood in the familiar setting of Sherlock's own home, a brightly lit place, and spoke the three words with full clarity. It was a declaration. The man's eyes twinkled and his smile was radiant from below his whiskers. His cheeks were red, and he was clearly pleased. And then he was gone again.

Sherlock fought against the instinct to jerk away from John. What in the world was happening to his brain? This was beyond worrying. These...visions, whatever they were, needed to stop. With that last one he felt an intense burst of joy and something warm and constrictive in his chest, and he wanted to weep when it left all of the sudden. Who was that man? Sherlock felt like he knew him intimately, but at the same time knew he did not. He needed to distract himself from worrying about it for the moment. He would focus on it when he had more time. Perhaps when John was asleep. Sherlock tipped his head down to mouth at John's throat, one hand slipping to rest lightly on John's own thigh. "I look forward to it."

John was, of course, none the wiser about what was going on inside the detective's head. He had no way of knowing that history had repeated itself, and then was repeating itself again in Sherlock's mind, that just as a man who he was but wasn't had merrily  agreed to live and work with Sherlock Holmes, so had he. He also had no way of knowing that images of him were burdening Sherlock immensely.  He did know that Sherlock's long fingers were on his leg, felt like any moment they would creep up even though they weren't moving. The cab jerked to a stop, and John couldn't help from groaning a word of thanks to the heavens. John paid the cabbie, and then they were off, attached by joined hands, neither of them quite knowing who was pulling who frantically inside and upstairs.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. Warning again for some smut. Also for a severely codependent relationship. And bad language? Anyway! Read at your own risk.

They all but stumbled across the threshold once Sherlock got the keys out and the door opened. Sherlock wasted no time. Using some of his remarkable speed, he had John pushed and shoved and pulled over to the couch in the blink of an eye. It took only another blink for Sherlock to be straddling his hips, looming over and above with a distinctly aroused look to his face. He had lost the coat two steps in to the room and left it puddled on the floor. The buttons of his white shirt strained and screamed in protest as he put his hands on the armrest above John's head. Sherlock dipped his head to kiss John's lips - for the rough and quick approach, the kiss itself was soft, as if Sherlock were trying to let all of his emotions simply seep it to John's mouth. He wanted John to taste it; his relief, his appreciation, his respect, even this dizzying thing Sherlock was starting accept was probably love.

John was prepared for being slammed up against things and ravished, but he hadn't realized that part of what Sherlock was included his normal strength and normal speed. John still hadn't fully grasped on to what "vampire" meant. Sherlock wasn't a human with powers. He was a completely different CREATURE. The speed and the strength were his normal state of being. Christ, John thought inanely. He must feel like he's swimming through marmalade all day. All of this thinking took place while Sherlock was already kissing him, because Sherlock had moved him so quickly that he didn't have TIME to think. He also got the wind knocked out of him, and so he panted into the kiss even as he pressed up for more and more. Once he got his mind together enough, he kicked off his shoes and raised his hands to cup Sherlock's head, like Sherlock was a precious thing. The feelings that John could feel from the kiss, because even though they weren't spoken and it was only a kiss, he had some perceptive powers of his own, were inflating his heart far past its normal capacity. He was constantly reminded of the depth of Sherlock's feelings for him and he was floored every time. Sure, he wasn't all that bad, but this was deep, it was profound. John gently pulled his face away from Sherlock and looked up at him in wonder and confusion. "I have no idea how this happened." He said, but the feelings that were coming off of him in waves were all strictly positive.

Sherlock kissed John's jaw, then his cheek, before he replied, "I believe it was because you ran in to Mike Stamford, and more immediately I believe it is because you made the decision to bloody well purr in my ear in a cab." Softly, so light that John might not even feel it, Sherlock pressed kisses to his throat, one at the precava vein that transported blood to John's heart, and another directly under his jaw. "I really cannot complain about either of those things." Sherlock drew back to look down at the flushed man under him. "In fact, remind me to thank Stamford someday. He may drop dead from shock, but I rather believe he deserves it." Sherlock's own face was lightly dusted with pink, and his fangs had lengthened somewhat - the tips were just barely visible, peeking out from under his upper lip. He looked lithe and sleek, a predator hunched over its prey. Sherlock slid a hand down John's jumper. "I would like this off. Please," He added as an afterthought. For the moment he thought he was doing a rather remarkable job of ignoring how John's throat all but sang to him to bite it.

John rumbled and hummed at the soft kisses over his neck. Well, those made sense. Was Sherlock going to feed? John was hoping for some foreplay first but- and then he was purposefully NOT biting him, and John couldn't help but be just a little relieved. John was quite the sight, already rumpled and very red and not exactly breathing at a normal rate. "As much as he's a good friend and you really should thank him, can we please stop talking about Mike when we're about to shag?" He asked with a funny little smile. Sherlock was a sight too. Seeing him blush at all was quite the feat, not to mention the posture... John knew people, he knew them very well, and normal people did not crouch like that, as though ready to strike. John's eyes fluttered shut for a moment. The prospect of being Sherlock's prey should not have been so arousing.  John wriggled out of his jumper, and though he had half a mind to keep his undershirt on just to mess with his boyfriend, he didn't. Once that business was over with, and his whole torso, dusty pink nipples, faded white gunshot wound, and black ink was revealed, he reached up to begin to undo the poor buttons of Sherlock's shirt, and kiss the lights out of him again. John gingerly ran his tongue over Sherlock's fangs, careful not to cut himself like last time.

Sherlock stared down at John in fascination. Oh, he could study that scar for days. It was so interesting. And the tattoo - when did he get it? Why? There was not sufficient data at this time for Sherlock to be able to know. He'd noted these things before, of course, the first time he had seen John without any clothes, but at the time his head had been so full of lust, both for John's body and his blood, that he hadn't even examined them properly. Sherlock tipped his head to the side, allowing John to do what he would with him. He'd meant what he'd said in the cab. John was in charge for the night. If he wanted Sherlock to fuck him senseless, he would happily oblige. If he wanted to fuck Sherlock...Sherlock felt a shudder ripple through him. John would have to fight for that, but Sherlock would oblige that request as well. Quite enthusiastically. But Sherlock would never submit to that without John proving his dominance. Oh. Sherlock paused in his kiss as he mentally envisioned John dominating him. That was an intriguing idea, and one he suddenly wanted with a hot passion. John could still choose how this night went, but he could at least suggest it. Sherlock groaned in to John's mouth, shuddering again, this time more pronounced. "Fuck me," He whispered in between the groan. Sherlock shrugged out of his shirt, let it slide to the floor, and he once again dragged a hand down John's chest, this time letting his nails catch lightly and scrape the entire way - not enough to mark the skin, just enough to let John notice and feel it.

John had a feeling that his immediate reaction of '...What? REALLY!?' would ruin the mood, and so instead he just groaned, at the implication of Sherlock offering that to him. That long, low sound was changed by the scratch of Sherlock's nails down his front, leaving a warm burning sensation in their wake and running right over one of his sensitive nipples, into a high keening whimper. It wasn't exactly the kind of sound someone expected from a dom, but John just couldn’t help it, as completely caught off guard as he was. Still, the idea that Sherlock, a bloodthirsty creature that clearly wanted to make him his victim, should ask John to fuck him... Christ, John hadn't thought he'd ever be given this opportunity. Not that he'd thought about it extensively, but he'd always assumed that Sherlock, being the superior being, would want to top him.  John knew that he'd have to up his game if he really wanted to do this. It was clear Sherlock wanted it, and he wanted it too, wanted to feel Sherlock tight around him and submitting. The idea of being in control of someone who could rip out his throat made his gut tighten with lust. John let out a feral growl of his own and reached up to grasp at Sherlock, pulling the man down against him. If it was domination that Sherlock wanted, it was domination he would get. John pulled out of the kiss just enough to bite Sherlock's lower lip, to worry it in his own, while his hands claimed Sherlock's skin, gripping him tightly and digging his own nails in right around Sherlock's hips. When he ran out of breath (oxygen seemed to be in short supply that evening) John rumbled against Sherlock's mouth, "You're. Mine." There was a certain element of acting to what John was doing right now, yes, but there was also an element of god's honest truth.

Sherlock moaned, long and low, in to John's open mouth. He knew there was a bit of acting, but he also felt the truth. He could do that as well. "I want you to take me, John" He whispered against the others lips. His lower one was swollen and red from John's attention. Sherlock arched his back without moving his head from John when the nails dug in to his hips. Ahh, that was good. But not good enough yet. Sherlock wouldn't submit that easy. He leaned back down to slot his lips over John's and kissed him for all he was worth, grinding his arse down against John at the same time. Sherlock made sure to take one of those obviously very sensitive nipples between his fingers as well, rolling it and pinching it just to hear what sort of sounds John would make. Sherlock wanted to draw all of the noises out and then analyze them, categorize them, study them like they were a particularly interesting crime scene and he needed to learn everything about the way John moaned if he were to solve a case.

John knew that was the truth as well, though, and he couldn't help the shudder that went through him. John could tell from how forward Sherlock was being that he hadn't earned the right to bugger him just yet. John gasped at the twin sensation of Sherlock's arse against his erection and Sherlock's fingers gripping his nipples. He wanted to cry out, to let Sherlock know just how affected he was, but that wasn't exactly the act of someone who was trying to dominate you. Instead John held his own noises back with a harsh grunt and reached down to unbutton Sherlock's trousers and yank them off, before he savagely grasped Sherlock's buttocks and pulled the vampire down against him again, using his tight abdominals to pull himself up as he pushed Sherlock back, both of them now sitting upright on the sofa, still connected by needy mouths.

Sherlock hissed in pleasure and panted in between their kisses, legs slotting around John’s body to accommodate the changed position. Sherlock's hips took up a slow rise and fall on John's own, making it a teasing sort of grinding. Gods, how he wanted this. Never before had he ever wanted to submit to anyone like this before. Sherlock had bottomed only a few times, because of his complete inability to find anyone who could dominate him. He was confident that John could do it. That thought filled him with a rush of intense glee. As his last act of defiance, Sherlock jerked away from John's lips to nip hard at John's throat. It wasn't enough to split the skin, not even enough to bruise him, but it was enough to turn every bit his teeth touched red. Sherlock all but purred when he saw his handiwork.

John could feel it, could feel that Sherlock's touching him was just taking advantage, was just impetuousness. John wouldn't stand for it. Usually when he topped he wasn't so forceful, wasn't so take-charge, and to be honest he preferred without, but right now part of the pleasure of bedding Sherlock was being in control of him, so John had no issue enjoying it while he could. After Sherlock's first red mark on him, John pressed the full force of his body against Sherlock and pressed him down into the cushions. "Unacceptable." He growled. "The only one allowed to do any marking here is me." He let the feeling of how hard Sherlock had made him through all of his ministrations and his grinding and his noises spur him on, feed the powerful masculinity he so rarely let rise to the surface, each throb of his cock giving him license to take more and more control of his love. "If you're lucky I'll make you all red." he purred in Sherlock's ear, before biting sharply at his earlobe. John didn't realize how much Sherlock probably wanted to bite him then. As far as John was concerned, if Sherlock wanted to feed, he should.

Sherlock made a keening noise in the back of his throat and his hips bucked up instinctively. The fangs shot out the rest of the way with his all-consuming urge to bite John right now. No, no, no, he thought frantically. Damn, but why was arousal so closely linked to his urge to feed? Sherlock wiggled his entire body, pressing every bit of himself against John in a silent plea. He wasn't quite sure what he was asking for anymore. More friction on his aching erection? Perhaps for John to do as he said and mark him? For John to bend his neck and let Sherlock sink his teeth in there? Sherlock shook his head, unaware of how that might look to John after his words. Sherlock was so turned on by John's display and his sudden take-charge attitude that it was all he could do not to beg him. Even if he was bottoming, Sherlock wouldn't beg. He'd never done so before, so why should he start now? Instead of whispering words like "please" and "more" and "take me", Sherlock stretched his body out to its full length and tipped his head back and to the side. It was a clear sign of submission that even the human could recognize.

John's subconscious recognized it was total glee, and he felt another rumble in his chest, issuing from his throat in the form of a low, gravelly noise.  John decided then that Sherlock was so wound up- and he was, too- that perhaps it was time to begin. John took the headshake as it was, without reading too much into it. Sherlock knew him inside and out. Surely he knew that all he would have to do is tell John to stop and John would, in his tracks, no matter what he was doing. John had the morality as well as the discipline to not hurt a lover more than was welcome. If they decided to get seriously rough in the future, they'd create a safe word. For now, John began to prepare Sherlock, lifting his fingers to his own mouth to slick them in saliva and then press into Sherlock. Even with the makeshift lube he'd prepare Sherlock as well as he possibly could, so then John could ram into him without damaging him. John's touch to Sherlock's entrance could almost be described as tender, so in comparison John sunk his teeth into Sherlock's neck in a feat of irony and bit down so hard that he broke the skin there before moving on to an adjacent bit of skin, completely ruining Sherlock's white neck with deep red marks. It was not enough to be cause for a real injury, but just enough for the skin to split.

Sherlock was moaning softly under his breath at the preparation. It had been a very, very long while since he had done this, and even though John was downright gentle, it still burnt. But Sherlock was a creature that had lived for hundreds of years; a little burn was nothing to him. He bucked his hips under John, silently willing him to understand that Sherlock could take more. All thought cut off, however, when John bit him. The noise Sherlock made could only be described as a shriek. If one thought too much on it, it might be said to have sounded like a noise a bat would make, only lower. Only years of building up iron control kept him from returning what his brain took as a territorial display. He wanted to do the exact same for his mate, but a small part of Sherlock screamed that it was a horrible idea. Instead of doing what he desperately wanted to do, he began wiggling against John’s fingers again.

John, in a show of being in charge, took his free hand and pressed Sherlock's hips into the cushions, immobile. "No." He hissed into Sherlock's ear. There was only one way John knew how to do this particular act, and that was slowly, gently, and completely. No matter what the circumstances, that wasn't going to change. In moments John would have his cock inside Sherlock, and without proper lubricant and the kind of force John planned on using, Sherlock would get all of the frantic pleasure he wanted. But this part would be slow, would be thorough. It was just how this worked, with John. John kept from touching the bundle of nerves in Sherlock's body, thinking that he'd rather pound into it wish his erection, and Sherlock would be SCREAMING for more. That shriek was a sound that went straight to John's dick and he growled, now biting the same spot again to make Sherlock really bleed fine red drops of what was mostly John’s blood. Then he put his hand, the one that hadn't just stretched Sherlock open, in front of Sherlock's face. "Make me wet." He said, wanting to feel that sinful mouth all over his skin so he could get himself slick next. John didn't realize what a temptation it would be to have his skin in Sherlock's mouth, ready to be bitten.

Sherlock whimpered, biting down on his lip hard enough to make it bleed as well. John had to know what he was doing to Sherlock. He had to. The obvious dominance helped abate Sherlock's blood lust a bit, because it was clearly his mate's turn, but he couldn't just expect Sherlock to lick at his hand, to have his skin in his mouth and under his tongue, and not want to bite the ever loving fuck out of him. But then again, John did not know of his decision not to feed. Swallowing another whimper, Sherlock arched up so that his mouth was closer. He started by pressing his tongue flat and dragging it slowly along John's entire palm, lapping at it playfully like a cat. Next he trailed his way up John's index finger before taking it entirely in to his mouth. Sherlock swirled his tongue around the digit, then bobbed his head down as if John's finger were his cock. He pulled off as soon as it was dripping with Sherlock's saliva. Sherlock repeated this process with each of John's fingers until his hand was completely slick. Outwardly he only showed lust on his face, but inside his mind was in a rage, fighting against its own natural instincts. "Are you going to take me now, John?" He whispered against the hand before placing a wet kiss at the center of John's palm.

Christ, did Sherlock have to be so bloody GOOD at that!? John could remember Sherlock's mouth on him like it was on his hand now, hot and wet... The effect of it was dizzying. Actually, John was legitimately dizzy. And a little queasy too. He chalked it up to nerves and carried on, bringing his hand down to his cock before Sherlock's spit could dry, slicking himself up and then assuming the position, the head of his cock nudging up against Sherlock's hole. Fuck, with the noises Sherlock was making... John could imagine the completely helpless look on his face as John rammed into him, and maybe, just for the moment John was making him cum, John actually WOULD have the upper hand. How fucking marvelous would that be? The idea of seeing Sherlock vulnerable made his gut tighten.  "I'm going to fuck you until you can't see strai-“ The trouble was that from there, his gut hadn't stopped tightening, and now he had to brace himself with a hand on Sherlock's shoulder, pressing his suddenly clammy forehead against Sherlock's collarbone and clutching at his stomach with his other hand. His insides were cramping up abdominally, and soon he was shaking, erection wilting, unable to keep his mind off of it. He let out a groan that was anything but sexy.

Sherlock sat up quickly, his own erection flagging almost immediately as he sensed John's pain. John's skin was wet and cold against his own and Sherlock felt a trill of fear race up his spine.  "John? What's wrong? What is happening?" He slid a hand through John's hair, stroking the back of his neck. Sherlock shifted until he had the other man leaning fully against his own chest. He held John in his arms as he shook, mind racing as he tried to place what was wrong.

John didn't know what was happening to him, just that it burned terribly and that it badly hurt. After reaching an almost unbearable intensity the pain seemed to plateau. Well, that at least, was lucky. It was interesting that it was more or less John's own blood that was giving him this reaction, and in fact, was slowly trickling out of Sherlock's neck still. John's whole body came to reject it, and soon he felt nauseous as well. If John could have spared the thought he would have thanked the lord, because if he vomited then maybe the pain would abate some. He made a particularly urpy noise that suggested that unless Sherlock wanted sick all over him, he might want to relocate them.

Sherlock had them up slowly, cradling John fully against his chest like he was a rag doll. He wanted to get John to the bathroom quickly, but Sherlock knew from his own past experience that rushing anywhere when one was sick was cause for immediate vomit. Thus he stepped slowly and measuredly away from the living room and in to the bathroom. Sherlock kicked the door open and hit the light with his other hand, using just one arm to hold John. Gently he placed John to the ground and allowed him to do what he needed. Sherlock stroked a warm hand down John’s naked, clammy back. He tried to think of what all could have caused this sudden reaction. When he got to the answer his entire body stilled. "Oh, no," He said. Sherlock had done this. He had caused John this pain. His entire being shied away from acknowledging that. Why did he not stop to consider his blood might cause John issues? It was used in the turning process, so of course it might be. "Stupid, stupid."

Luckily, once John had rejected the poison that was Sherlock's blood, even though it was just a tiny bit, the pain reduced down into a dull ache that left John queasy and still groaning slightly, but after several minutes to gather and revive himself, John pushed himself straight, reaching out to flush the loo and lean back against the cool tiles of the bathroom. He hugged his stomach and cracked one eye open, though they were sensitive to the light in the room. "Really sexy, huh?" He asked, and his voice was low and hoarse from the groaning he'd done.  John didn't imagine that seeing a person be violently sick and then huddle up into a little ball was particularly what one expected of a good dom.

Sherlock slid closer slowly. It was possible that John already knew the cause for this and would not want to be anywhere near Sherlock right now. And even if he didn't...Sherlock had to be honest. He had promised. "I'm sorry, John. This is my fault." He licked a finger and smeared his own saliva over John's bites. In moments they had begun to close. After he was positive John was alright he would clean himself up.

John shook his head slightly. "It would have to be. Someone with my record of health couldn't have symptoms like this that quickly." He replied. If John knew the thoughts Sherlock was having about John rejecting Sherlock, being disgusted by him and not wanting him near, he would have smacked him in the head for being an idiot. Instead, he just weakly reached out for the consulting detective's hand and pulled him closer. "So? What is it?" He asked, letting both of his eyes slide closed to give his head a rest. It was really pounding, now, and he was still jittery from the whole ordeal, still achy in the stomach.

Sherlock allowed John to pull him in closer. He lifted an arm and tucked it around John's shoulder as he answered, "My blood. You bit me so hard I bled," Sherlock had to pause here for a moment, to swallow and forcibly ignore the bit of pleasure he felt just thinking of it," and you must have swallowed some of it.  I can feel your nausea. I'm very sorry for it. I told you that it is used in turning humans - don't worry, that is not what is happening - and I should have known that your body would object to it." Sherlock hunched a bit so that he could lay his head over John's chest, his ear pressed close so he could listen to John's heart. The position would have had a normal person's body screaming - what with the hunching while his arm was still up and around John - but Sherlock Holmes was widely regarded as having a spine of rubber.

John took very happy note of that. One of these days he might actually be able to enjoy that flexibility. "Well, that's good to know now, at least. That was just a few drops...Imagine what more might do. I'll just have to be careful about it." He paused for a moment, and then said softly, "I guess if we want to do blood play it will have to be one-way." He wondered how Sherlock would feel about taking a scalpel to his skin and giving him a scar on some part of his body that nobody would ever see. If he wanted to mark John so much, maybe that was the way to do it. Not until John was sure of the two of them together, though. Right now, feeling safer than he ever had in the arms of a man whose very essence could probably kill him, John thought that it was a distinct possibility. Sherlock's embrace and his soft hair pressing into his chest were calming his stomach quite a bit, though it didn't help his headache.

Sherlock turned to stare at John in open shock. Blood play? Good lord. Was John actually offering to let Sherlock do such a thing with him? Or, well, as it would indeed have to be one way, _to_ him? Sherlock did not think he'd get off on actually hurting John in the way that particular kink seemed to imply, but the fact that John was offering stumped him. Sherlock did not want to take a knife to his skin and cut just to arouse. Besides, if they were ever to do that, there would be no possible way Sherlock could resist feeding off of the other man. He was not all that enthusiastic about carving a scar in to John with a scalpel either. The thought of marking him like that was lovely, but he would want to do it with his teeth or his own nails - which, he had yet to show John, were very, very sharp when he wanted them to be. Would John like that, though? Sherlock would do nothing of the sort unless he was certain John was just as interested in being marked as Sherlock was in doing the marking. Sherlock just gave a non-verbal grunt in reply to John's words. "Would you like to move now?" He asked, changing the subject. Thinking of doing those things to John wasn't helping the bloodlust he was still feeling. The regular arousal had faded quickly when he realized John was sick, but that had not faded. "I can carry you to a bed if you'd like."

John shook his head. He was well enough to get to bed himself. "Help me up?" He asked, lifting a still shaky arm around Sherlock's neck to let the man lift him off the ground. Once he had his legs under him, he was fine, if a little tired. Quickly John washed out his mouth and brushed his teeth until the taste of sick was off of them. "I don't think I'm up for returning to our previously scheduled activities, though." John swallowed and looked up at Sherlock as they left the bathroom. "Though if you're still keen, I could...Well, lend a hand?" The worried look on Sherlock's face not a moment ago told him that Sherlock wouldn't be asking for more. It wasn't that John was specifically into blood play. He'd just never tried it before, and since Sherlock was so keen to mark him, it just seemed to make sense. John was open to trying new things in bed, after all, no matter how much he liked his missionary position.

Sherlock chuckled. Leave it to John to be worried about lending him a hand when he was ill. "Of course not, John. You should rest." Sherlock's hand found its way to John's elbow as they made it to the stairs. On the off chance that the sickness should come back, he didn't want John tumbling over on them backwards. It was rather silly, but there it is. Whereas John was open in bed, Sherlock, surprisingly, wasn't really. He may have had centuries to perfect his skills, but sex was always very boring for him before this, and he had never felt the urge to branch out and study other ways than the usual. What he knew worked, so why learn more when it bored him and served no immediate purpose?

"I will rest." John said with a frown. "I'm feeling better than I was a moment ago but I don't exactly feel like doing pushups and running laps.” He let Sherlock help him, because even though he knew he was fully capable of climbing the stairs by himself, he also knew it probably eased Sherlock's guilt a little to be of assistance. Once John was tucked cozy in bed, he reached out an arm to tap the bed beside him, a gesture for Sherlock to join him. "Don't be too hard on yourself, you didn't know, did you? It was an accident."

Sherlock slowly stretched his body out beside John's, a little smile on his lips. "Have you not noticed yet, John, that I am always hard on myself? I have to be or else I am no better than anyone else." Once he was fully laid out on the bed he slid closer to John. If he couldn't come at least once from this attempt, the least he could get was some physical comfort. Right? That wasn't asking too much? Sherlock copied himself from earlier by laying his head on John's chest again. He quite liked this position. While the beating of John's heart did nothing to help with his thirst, it did assure him that John was still here and still living.

John shifted himself as well, getting himself comfortable with Sherlock's big head on him, and then letting one of his arms rest around Sherlock's shoulders, hugging him close like a big teddy bear. "Why do you have to be so much better than everyone else, though?" John asked. "You're already better than us, what with your speed and your strength and your immortality. Not to mention you're brilliant and gorgeous...You're already better than just about everyone by those measures alone." He said, sounding legitimately curious as his fingers danced in slow, soothing circles around Sherlock's chest.

Sherlock shook his head, his hair tickling lightly at John's chest. "I am nothing if I am not smarter than those around me, John. Just a sociopathathic, blood-sucking monster. Speed, strength, good looks? They mean nothing to me." Sherlock curled his legs up so that he was just about resting all of his weight on John's chest. He needed John to understand this. Sherlock was nothing without his intellect, and it bothered him intensely that he had let this happen. He should have realized John biting through his skin would lead to this.

When John had bitten him, he'd thought it nothing but a little bit of erotic rough play and irony. He didn't know that it would lead to anything else, whatever that might be.  John reached around for the duvet, and pulled it to cover Sherlock as well, before he returned his hand back to his boyfriend, petting his fingers through Sherlock's hair.  The first thing John said in response was "You're not a monster." His voice was soft, and his fingers took on a slow, steady rhythm. "I know. I've met some. You're nothing like them. Next, you are so much more than just your mind... But even if you weren't, darling, I believe you've got the upper hand there anyway."

Sherlock lifted his head up slightly so that John could see him raising an eyebrow before he laid it back down. "Darling, is it?" He laughed softly against John's chest, his warm breath ghosting over his skin teasingly. "I have no doubt that I am smarter than the vast majority, John. But as loathe as I am to admit, there are more intelligent people. I would rather rip out my own tongue than say it to him, but my brother is one of them." Sherlock burrowed down in the covers and wrapped both arms around John's torso, hugging him. If only all those people who called him an emotionless statue could see him now, he thought dryly, they might just all drop dead from the shock.  

John laughed softly, but stopped almost at once as it did odd things to his already precarious stomach. “How about sweetheart, then? Can I call you that?” He stopped to consider the other part of Sherlock’s words. “You have nothing to be ashamed about, you know, intelligence wise. You’re a bloody genius, even if Mycroft’s smarter than you. He’s also fucking insane, and I kind of prefer you…well, not.”

Sherlock's lips curled up in a smile he was certain John could feel. "I think I prefer 'darling' over that, actually. But only if I can call you 'mon petit John'." The smile shifted in to a smirk. My little John. It was quite perfect. "And I am not ashamed of anything. I am simply saying that, while intelligent, I am not as intelligent as I could be. But the thought of becoming like Mycroft is simply horrible, so I do not mind it too unduly."

John made a face. "I know what 'Petite' means, Sherlock, it's not different in French. If you get two choices so do I. It's only fair."  He didn't know exactly what to tell Sherlock about Mycroft. He didn't know him well enough. Didn't know either of them, really. Wanted to know them better. Or Sherlock better. "For what it's worth, I think you're quite brilliant." He said softly. He wanted Sherlock to know that he was amazing to almost everyone, and if Mycroft was smarter than him it really didn't matter. He wanted Sherlock to know that he was worth more than his brain too, but that was a tough one to explain. Instead of trying, he shifted until he could place his lips on Sherlock’s own, trying to express everything he was thinking through the soft contact there. The kiss was not meant to be arousing, but meaningful. John wanted his emotions to come across loud and clear, for Sherlock to know what he thought of him.

Sherlock hummed in to John's mouth. His heart, that traitorous thing, beat hard against his chest as he felt what John was trying to say with his mouth and through the bond. It was indeed meaningful. Sherlock's tongue ran along the seam of John’s mouth before lightly dipping in to flick itself along John's own tongue. After several moments of this he pulled away. Sherlock licked his lips and nuzzled at John's cheek, once again displaying his animalistic tendencies. "Stop that," He murmured. "You are not allowed to kiss me like that when I am trying to get you to sleep." Sherlock shuffled down until they were both lying flat on the bed. He skillfully slotted their bodies together in the most comfortable position and drew the covers up again with one hand. "You need to sleep. I am sure ingesting my blood has worn you out. Rest. I will watch over you, if you do not mind." Ah, here. Finally he could find out if it was appropriate to be staring at John all night.

John gave a little laugh. He wasn't really sleepy, but as an adult you learned that sleep was a precious thing and could find a way to fall into it if you were comfortable enough. Especially if you needed that sleep to fight a war the next day. Anyway, John was QUITE comfortable enough. John wouldn't object to the rest. "Ah, like a guardian angel." He said with a smile, letting his eyes flutter shut. "A creepy bloodsucking angel that likes to watch me in my sleep." He elaborated further. "...A sexy angel with a nice arse who makes the BEST noises...." John chuckled again. No, watching him sleep was definitely not appropriate, but John would let him. The thought made something in John slightly queasy, but in a good way. If John didn't already trust Sherlock, he'd know that he didn't meant any harm to him while he was vulnerable and sleeping, as he had just been vulnerable and sick not half an hour ago. Not that it mattered either way. If Sherlock wanted to harm him, he could have long since done so.

Sherlock chuckled quietly along with him, taking note of John's queasiness but also his acceptance. "Please stop talking about my arse and the noises I make, or I might just have to drag myself off to the bathroom to have a nice, long wank." Sherlock chuckled again. Not for the first time, and he was sure it wouldn't be for the last, he was hit by how utterly ridiculous this all was. If someone had told him several years ago that he would be lying in bed nude with a human man who knew his secret, joking about his rather desperate need for a wank after a failed shag, he most likely would have sent them along to a mental hospital. After glamouring out the vampire bit, of course. Sherlock pressed a light kiss to John's forehead, a motion he seemed to be quite fond of performing. "Goodnight, John. No harm will come to you while you sleep."

“I would suggest you do that, buuuut..." John began, humming softly now, clearly getting closer and closer to sleep. Sherlock's lips on his forehead made him smile softly. "I'm feeling rather good here with you right now, so best not move. If you want a wank, I'll help." It was his fault Sherlock had been cockblocked. He snuggled in a little bit, pressing his nose gently against some of Sherlock's skin. At this point it didn't much matter where, just that it was warm and it belonged to Sherlock. "With you hanging around I might as well be sleeping in an impenetrable fortress." He said, and Sherlock could feel then through the bond John's faith in him, and his trust.

Sherlock shook his head lightly in response to John's offer. Honestly, he was just kidding about the wank. Despite what John might think, this whole thing was his fault, not John's. Sherlock's arms tightened on John's body as he felt the trust and the faith. It warmed him deeply to know that someone, even if it was just one person, trusted him. Sherlock let his lips press against the top of John's head, not really a kiss but just resting there. "Sleep," He whispered. 


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here, have a bit of fluff in case you're still suffering from Reichenbach Angst. That's an official medical condition, you know. The only cure is sobbing and fluff, but it'll never completely go away.

Sherlock's voice might as well have been hypnotic, because it only took moments for John to fall deeply into sleep after he uttered the soft word. John really was adorable when he slept. All of the (rather trivial) cares from everyday life melted away and he was left curled up against Sherlock's chest completely relaxed, looking for all the world like a sleepy little kitten. It was the cares from what every-day life USED to be like that bothered him the most, while he was asleep. Sherlock got a peaceful four hours of sleep before John began to get restless, pulse elevating and eyes moving rapidly behind his eyelids. He shifted and moved by small measures, and it was obvious that he was having a very vivid dream, but it wasn't clear that he was having a nightmare until he suddenly punched Sherlock in the face, pushing off his dream-captor.

 Sherlock used most of the four hours to observe John's face while he slept. It was fascinating. He almost looked like a completely different person while he was relaxed and unguarded. Near the end Sherlock's own eyes drifted to a close and his body went lax. He blamed it on that when he did not notice John's fist in time to avoid it crashing in to his jaw. This was why he rarely slept, Sherlock thought dazedly as he jerked away from the thrashing man. He missed things while his brain was all foggy. Sherlock shuffled hastily away from John, cupping his injured jaw. My, but John had quite the right hook. Sherlock was unsure how to go about waking John up. He had never slept in the same bed with any of his previous sexual partners after the deed, and so he did not know the proper procedure for this. He settled for reaching out a single hand to shake John's shoulder as he said, "John! Wake up. You're having a dream. Whatever it is, it is only a dream."

The moment Sherlock spoke, John's eyes snapped open, and for a moment he looked like a crazed thing, an animal ready to crash through some underbrush in a panic. He sat up to look around the room to confirm what his brain was telling him, that he wasn't in danger anymore, that he was safe, there was no one grabbing him from behind, and no one dying right in front of him, and not hot metal tearing through his flesh. And Sherlock was there. John took a good long look at him, eyes running up and down over his whole upper body. It wasn't like he was getting an eyeful; rather he was trying to analyze what he was seeing. His pulse was still throbbing, and his headache had returned. And Sherlock, SHERLOCK was there, making this dark bedroom the safest place there could possibly be for John Watson. He swallowed and closed his eyes and took a deep breath, trying to calm himself. "That, uh...That happens." He still hadn't yet noticed Sherlock's jaw.

Sherlock refrained from getting any closer to the other man. He may not understand everything about the human psyche, but he certainly knew never to approach someone who looked as harried as John did at this moment. After allowing him to reassert himself and gather his bearings, Sherlock finally slid away from the edge of the bed so that he was a bit closer. “Quite alright." His words had a bit of a lisp to them from his rapidly swollen jaw. Damn, for a human John did have a lot of power behind his flailing punch. Sherlock could hear John's pulse and the rushing of his blood from his panic. It made his mouth water. Sherlock firmly locked his willpower in place. No, he told himself. I will not be biting him. Especially not right now.

John had never had anyone around after one of his nightmares. He hadn't slept with anyone since he'd gotten shot, so nobody had the opportunity to be there while he slept.  Still, Sherlock had the right idea. John liked having him around right then, it calmed him down, made him feel immensely safe... But that didn't mean he particularly wanted to be touched.  John noticed the lisp, and then he noticed the way Sherlock was cradling his jaw. His eyes grew wide. "Shit, did I- Was that ME?" He asked. Not having anyone around also meant that he hadn't decked anyone during a night terror either. Fuck!

Sherlock nodded. "It's fine, John." He really didn't mind, it would heal soon. Instead he simply absorbed it in to the data he was slowly collecting about John. Sherlock poked his tongue at the corner, between his lip and his teeth, to feel it twinge. "Very impressive for not being wholly conscious." Sherlock tipped his head to the side, watching John with intense eyes. "Are you alright? That seemed rather intense." He wondered for a moment if he could ask what John had been dreaming of, but that might be too invasive.

John blinked at Sherlock like he was crazy. "You're turning colors, Sherlock, it's not fine!" John pushed himself out of bed and to one of the boxes he had yet to fully unpack. After some rummaging he got out his medbag, and extracted from the first aid kit one of those shake up ice packs, which he tossed to Sherlock. "Do you want something for the pain? Would it even work on you?" John asked, and for someone who was still half asleep, disoriented, and with a bleeding headache, he was running around like a chicken with its head cut off. If was obvious just how guilty he was. John completely ignored Sherlock's other questions. He didn't particularly want to talk about his dreams.

Sherlock's hand darted out to wrap around John's wrist as he passed by the bed again. "Please calm down. Come back to the bed." He pulled gently on John's arm, trying to urge him to come. "You should sleep more." He didn't understand why John was making such a big deal out of this. Sherlock's jaw would be fine soon and it didn't bother him that John threw punches in his sleep. Sherlock rarely slept himself, and so he would be able to steer clear of John's body when he had nightmares on the nights they spent together in a bed. Sherlock took the ice pack from John's other hand and carefully set it against his jaw just to appease him.

John frowned. It was just that he hadn't hurt anyone in a really long time, and Sherlock was the last person in the world he wanted to hurt right now. Sherlock had been watching over him, like a real guardian angel, protecting him, and John had repaid the favor by slugging him. John also didn't much like the idea that he and Sherlock wouldn't be able to sleep in the same bed because of his nightmares. John was very traditional in some ways, and one of those ways was that he liked to share a bed with his significant other. Always. John hadn't quite realized yet that it would probably be rare, since Sherlock didn't sleep much.  John crawled back up onto the bed, and turned on the bedside light. He gingerly placed his hand over Sherlock's, and lifted the ice pack just a bit so he could see. "Gosh that's pretty." He said with a wince, before lowering the ice pack back down.  John then leaned back against the head board and closed his eyes. "I'm not exactly keen on getting back to sleep, if you can believe it."

Sherlock tossed the ice on to the bedside table. He really didn't need it. The redness was already starting to fade and it only ached a bit, a dull pain he could easily ignore in favor of focusing on John. He crawled his way to John's side, still being sure he kept at least four inches between them in case John was not ready to be touched. "I suppose I can understand that. You have quite the punch, you know. I was impressed." He complimented. Sherlock turned his head to watch John closely. He didn't want to press an issue John obviously didn't want to talk about, but he had to hear John say it. "Are you certain you are alright? Is...Is there anything I can do for you?" Sherlock didn't like doing things for other people, but he would make an exception in this moment.

John let out a short, humorless laugh. "Are you serious right now?" He asked, raising an eyebrow at his boyfriend. Sherlock was quite oblivious, wasn't he? "I'm sure it can't be hard for you to guess what I was dreaming of." He pointedly did not look at his bullet wound scar. The shoulder twitched subconsciously instead. "If ever anything was going to harm me, you could rip it to shreds." He had no doubt Sherlock could stop a speeding bullet. Somehow. "After a bout of nightmares generally it helps to feel safe." He hoped Sherlock caught on to the fact that nothing could make him safer than having Sherlock there watching over him, but his words could have another meaning to them that John didn't intend. Come to think, besides the feeling of wanting to be safe that Sherlock fulfilled perfectly, Sherlock also neutralized his bad feelings post-nightmare rather well. John no longer felt purposeless, because of Sherlock. He no longer ached for war because of Sherlock. There was still quite a lot of terror and survivor's guilt associated with his dreams of the war, but Sherlock had managed to make them quite a bit nicer without even trying.

Sherlock was indeed very oblivious. So oblivious, in fact, he listened to John's words about safety and of Sherlock's ability to rip things to shreds and took that to mean that he did not feel safe around Sherlock. And why should he, Sherlock asked himself, when the first night John had spent in this flat Sherlock had molested and bit him, then glamoured him to forget the indiscretion? Today he had gotten him dragged in to a near death situation with three other blood thirsty creatures and Mycroft - who Sherlock personally thought would have been completely and utterly dangerous even if he hadn't been born a vampire. Why ever should John feel safe around him? Sherlock shifted subtly so that he was leaning away from John. He was seconds from making some excuse to get himself out of the room so that he could leave John to his peace.

John, oblivious himself to Sherlock's inner struggled, just sighed and leaned back against the headboard a bit. "I am going to be knackered tomorrow though, at this rate." He should get some sleep, but he thought the longer he stayed awake and with Sherlock, the less likely the dreams were to come back. If he could just convince himself that he was safe, he could dream of Afghanistan all he liked. It wasn't the country or the service or the people that were bad, after all, and he'd had plenty of good times serving there. A few good dreams about there as well. Dreams where he felt safe in the embassy, or with a crack shot brother in arms covering him as the whole company moved through the mountains were plenty welcome, just like sitting here with his own personal body guard was plenty welcome. "Maybe I should just take something. I've got a hell of a headache, and I'm sure whatever I took would help me sleep."

Sherlock glanced around the room until his eyes fell on an alarm clock. Just past 3 in the morning. Sherlock rolled over and planted his feet on the cold ground with a quiet little hiss. He stood and made his way to the medical bag John had already ravaged. He picked it up and stepped back to the bed to hand it to John. He was planning to leave the room once John had the pain meds. Perhaps then he would feel safe enough to sleep and not dream of blood and death.

John didn't do anything to confirm or deny those thoughts. Instead he flashed Sherlock a weary but quite sincere smile and went digging through his own medical bag for the pills he was looking for and the bottle of water he kept in there. He took the pills (the water was stale, but clean) and then zipped everything up, setting it to the side. The pills would take a while to kick in, and until then John was left gently rubbing his temples. He leaned over to shut off the bedside lamp again, hoping that would help, and bathing them in darkness. He wondered then for a moment how good Sherlock's night vision was. Only made sense that it would be pretty good. He was a predator, after all.

Sherlock blinked to allow the difference in lighting to register. His night vision was quite good; he could see John perfectly still.  Already his mind was running ahead to what reading he could get done tonight while he left John to sleep alone. There was that new article out on the psychology of serial rapists he'd been meaning to read for weeks. Sherlock leaned over the edge of the bed to press a soft kiss to John's lips, and then another to his forehead. "Goodnight, John. I shall leave you to a hopefully peaceful sleep."

John was a little distracted by the sweet little kisses Sherlock was giving him- unasked for but quite welcome- and so it took him a minute to realize that Sherlock planned to leave. Instantly his heart pounded a little harder and Sherlock could feel a spike of fear that John couldn't quite control. Without Sherlock around, he probably would have nightmares again. They tended to be inevitable after he'd slept a certain amount of time. John managed not to ask him where he was going and beg him to stay, but he didn't keep completely quiet. He couldn't. He really wanted Sherlock to stay. John's voice was awkward as he spoke. "Um, have a lot of business to get to, have you?" He asked.

Sherlock froze at the sudden, intense fear he got from John and the bond. He listened to John's words and his body relaxed rapidly. Oh. Oh, he had been misreading things again, hadn't he? He tended to do that a lot with John. It was actually very annoying and he would need to study the other man more so that this happened less. "Nothing too pressing," He answered, "Certainly not more important than you." Perhaps John knew how remarkable that statement was, perhaps he didn't, but Sherlock did and for a moment it quietly stumped him that he regarded John as more important than his work. That had certainly never happened before. The work was his life and he lived and breathed it. To find someone he regarded as more important was a bit shocking. Sherlock's brow furrowed minutely - not enough for John to see in the darkness of the room - as that other man's face flashed quickly in his mind. The man's face was open, soft, tender, not only as if he had heard everything Sherlock had just been thinking, but as if Sherlock had been directing the thoughts towards him. He mentally shook himself and pulled away from those thoughts in order to make his way back around the bed. He gingerly sat down on the edge of it. "I will stay, if you're sure you won't mind."

 John swallowed, now finding himself in an uncomfortable position. He very much wanted Sherlock to stay. Was sure he wouldn't sleep well without him, in fact. But if Sherlock had other things to do then it didn't much matter how important Sherlock thought he was, it was selfish for him to ask Sherlock to donate his time. After all, John was a grown man. He could deal with not sleeping. He'd done it before. He wasn't exactly good at it but he'd had lots of practice. Then again, even if he was awake, John knew that if he lay alone in the darkness long enough the nightmares would come without him being asleep.  He opened his mouth, but couldn't quite make the words come out. "I... I mean..."

Sherlock didn't allow John to try and continue his broken sentence. He lifted his legs completely from the floor and scooted over the bed until he was much closer to John. "Then. I will stay." was all he thought he needed to say. Obviously John wanted him here, and he had already said that his work could wait. He decided to allow John to make the last movement, to let him choose if and when they would touch each other. If John wanted him, he could have him. Forever, as long as he wanted him. But that might be just a bit too intense for him to say right now. Maybe later he would inform John of how deep his regard went. Probably around the time he was certain John felt the same. If that ever happened. Sherlock was suspicious that it would.

Johns face was bright red. So red it could have glowed in the lack of light. Here Sherlock was, already taking charge, already giving him what he was too afraid- and how embarrassing was that- to ask for. He swallowed. Highly awkward, but... Well, Sherlock could feel how profound John's relief was.  John still wasn't 100% sure, though. "You don't plan on sleeping, though, do you?" He asked, suspicious. "You've already gotten your fill of staring at me for the night, I'm sure. You could go get a laptop or some reading material or something. I can't imagine that you enjoy being idle this long." John would have liked physical contact, but he wasn't going to trap Sherlock in a bear hug for hours on end while the man could be doing something productive.

Sherlock could read him quite easily on this point. It was obvious now that John would sleep better with him here, and so he would stay here. One night of not working would not kill him. Instead of replying immediately he turned his body a bit so that he could offer John an arm to do with as he would. To either curl up in to it or to hold on to it or even to push it away. Some part of Sherlock hissed at him not to be so openly emotional. He shoved it away in favor of simply saying, "Come. I told you that I have nothing more pressing than you."

John pressed his lips together. That was the second time Sherlock had said it, and it wasn't any less staggering and uncomfortably....well, good, bloody fantastic, amazing, unparalleled. It felt wrong to feel that good about Sherlock saying that he was more important, because really, he shouldn't be. Had no right to be. Maybe if he was dying, or if it was his birthday, or some other reason to make him actually important...But now he was just a scared man in bed, terrified of being lonely. He didn't deserve this priority Sherlock was giving him.  Still, Sherlock didn't seem in the mood to argue. Slowly, and with an air of what could only be called defeat, John moved forward and curled against Sherlock, laying his head on Sherlock’s bicep and pressing his face into the junction of his shoulder. "Sorry." He murmured softly, followed by a slightly more confident, "Thank you."

Sherlock hummed in response. He let his forehead press against the top of John's head. John's hair was soft against his face. He'd have to move eventually or risk getting it in his mouth, but he was content for the moment. Rather ridiculously content, actually, considering he was sacrificing productive time to be there. "Think nothing of it, John." He said softly. He did not want John thinking he was upset about this in any way. He wasn't. Not at all.

As John lay there, ridiculously comfortable (save for the arm trapped underneath him, which was not so uncomfortable he'd have to move), trying to figure out exactly what had happened to him. After all the vampire craziness, which he had accepted and gone with, it was finally other thought that made him lose his cool. He decided to voice them, so that Sherlock knew just how ridiculous the whole situation was, but first his un-trapped arm curled around Sherlock's waist, because more than anything his thoughts had made him want Sherlock even closer, and he didn't want Sherlock to run away or get the wrong idea when he said "Just where the hell do you get off?" with an almost tortured note in his voice. "Coming into my life, and being EVERYTHING I need and fixing so much of everything that was wrong with me... " Helping him pay the rent and giving him his first good shag in over a year, fulfilling his need for danger and excitement, which was embarrassing and shameful, and now providing him safety and comfort that he hadn't thought he could have, that was so taboo he couldn't even ask for it? John gave a full body shiver, and Sherlock could feel the tumult of emotions going through John. The feelings were mostly bad feelings, but it was the sliver of good feelings that hurt John the most. John was happy. So terribly, disgustingly happy, and what gave Sherlock the right to make him feel that way? John tried to find more words, to let Sherlock know exactly the crime he'd committed, but none came, and all he could do was make a noise that sounded vaguely like disgust and burrow his face into Sherlock shoulder even more.

Sherlock's brows pulled down in his confusion. He had been holding John and they had both seemed content, and then John slurred all these words and his emotions all but slapped Sherlock in the face. He honestly could not tell if John was legitimately upset with him. "I'm...sorry?" He floundered for something to say. No one had ever accused Sherlock of making their lives better, even if they were obviously disgusted by it at the same time. Fuck, but he hated dealing with emotions. They were messy and they mostly just made him want to back away in a slow, cautious manner. But he would not back away from John. Even if his emotions confused him and vaguely bothered him. How did you comfort someone in this situation? Should he hold him tighter? Should he leave? Fuck.

It was obvious that John was legitimately upset, but was it Sherlock's fault? No, not REALLY, but John was so confused and Sherlock was the best scapegoat there. Sherlock had taken his broken, screwed up life and made it not just livable but actually nice, actually GOOD. In the span of three days, and with John hardly realizing it. Or at least, not realizing it like this. Because the rent and the sex and even the danger, they were all outrageously helpful, and the adventure associated with the danger was what was really going to revive him, but now Sherlock was actually getting in there. Not just giving John a reason to live but now permeating into the little cracks and taking the bad bits, the bits that John had no hope before of fixing, and fixing them. John had never imagined that he'd have someone to actually take care of him, not like this. He hadn't thought it would even be possible to sleep in a bed he felt completely secure in ever again, but Sherlock had DONE that, and had completely bypassed John's own restrictive shame about needing it. It wasn't just safe because Sherlock was a vampire, it was safe because Sherlock wouldn't hesitate to use those powers on John's behalf in a moment. John shivered. "Fuck." He agreed with Sherlock's thoughts.  He was shivering now in Sherlock's arms, and his eyes were beginning to sting. What else could Sherlock fix? Things that had been broken even before the war? Things about John that no one else would touch with a ten foot pole? What? John was terrified of just what Sherlock might do next. John was so used to hopelessness that he was terrified of change, and now, he was afraid of losing this change too. In that moment John knew that this relationship would work out. It had to, because he needed Sherlock. "I swear to god you better not have been lying about the "For life" thing because if you leave me I'll-" He didn't know what he do. All he knew was that now Sherlock had fixed him, John needed Sherlock to stay around and keep the places he'd mended steady.

Sherlock was having a mini-panic attack of his own, confused about what he should do and panicking that he would do something wrong. Much like John had never imagined he'd have someone to take care of him, Sherlock had never imagined he would have anyone willing to trust him enough to let him take care of them. He'd never wanted that. Ever. But with John, he found he actually craved it. He wanted to make him as whole as possible because John deserved to be. He wanted him happy. It was sheer coincidence that what made John happy was running after Sherlock in to danger, that he craved the adrenaline and the rush as much as Sherlock did. Sherlock's arms tightened around John at his words. "For life, John." He whispered in to the other man's ear. "For as long as you want me, John, I will be here. I won't be leaving you. I had thought that was obvious by now. I could no sooner leave you than I could willingly pull out my own fangs."

Now Sherlock was talking about the bond, though. It helped John that Sherlock was confident, knew for sure that he wasn't going anywhere, but this brought up other old insecurities. "Is it you, Sherlock? Or is it the bond?" His voice was soft now, John's shaking abated for a while with Sherlock's tighter grip. Sherlock had stumbled upon one of his most vulnerable points and he'd just found the holes and filled him up.  This could be John's salvation. Sherlock could save him, really, really save him when he thought he couldn't be saved.  John needed to know that it was real, that is was for him, that it wasn't some cruel, cruel trick because Sherlock? From his amazing mind to his crazy vampire powers to every gorgeous curl on the head of his ludicrously good looking body, Sherlock was too good to believe, even if he hadn't just blown John's whole life completely open.

Sherlock growled, a low and agitated sound that John could probably feel rumbling from his chest. This again? Sherlock thought he had made it quite clear. The bond had just hurried things a long a bit, what with him able to feel everything John felt, letting him know how he reacted to things and how he responded to Sherlock. Sherlock believed it was inevitable that he would have come to love John. Bond or no bond. "I told you before. It's not the bond. It's you. If not for you being who you are, I don't believe I would have ever felt these emotions. The bond would not even have been created, if not for you being who you are. Love is...foreign to me." It occurred to him that this was the first time he had ever named it out loud. "I've never had to express it before. But I assure you, John, that what I am feeling is not artificial."

John took a deep breath, and let it out softly. "You're fucking unbelievable, Sherlock." He said outright, because it was true. "One in a million. And not just because you've got a brain that no one else has. When I say unbelievable I mean literally." After a long moment of silence, Jon reached around and pinched himself. It wasn't a joking thing. When he felt the pain he was half expecting not to feel, he let out another cathartic breath. This was reality. Maybe this was really what his life was going to be from now on. John let the sound of Sherlock's growl echo in his memory. God. Sherlock was his. HIS. "Fuck. Are you sure you're getting the better part of the deal?"

Sherlock shook his head in denial. "No. You are quite unbelievable yourself. Never would I have imagined I would find someone quite like you. Do you even understand how rare you are, how precious? I do not think so." Sherlock shifted and rolled them suddenly so that he was hovering over John, his arms bracketing John's head. There was nothing dominating or sexual about this, he just wanted to make sure John could see his face and understand what he was saying. "Perhaps we are both getting the better part of this deal, John," Sherlock leaned down to burrow his face in to John's shoulder, his nose trailing a line against his throat, "And you need to accept that you are not dreaming it, and that I am not going anywhere, and that this...This is real."

Him, precious? Perhaps to Sherlock. Yes, to Sherlock. To anyone else, John was just... John. A diminutive hero on a pedestal. John was learning that he didn't mind that. That being precious to Sherlock was so much more than he ever thought he'd have. John was surprised by the sudden shift in positions. Having Sherlock above him that way sent a particularly sensual shiver down him, even if the movement wasn't meant to be sexual. His breath caught as he saw Sherlock's face in the dim lighting, saw the almost glowing shade of his eyes looking down at him and with such truth, and such concern. Sherlock was worried about him, really worried, worried that John wouldn't understand what Sherlock was trying to tell him. It was outrageous, impossible, but...clear as day. Well, no. Maybe not impossible...Merely...improbable. John closed his eyes against the overwhelming onslaught of reality and hummed softly as he felt Sherlock's warm breath on his skin. Sherlock really was warm. Not what you'd imagine from someone who may or may not be undead. "Am I allowed some time to come to terms with it?" he asked, the dread in his voice now replaced by a hint of almost lighthearted hysteria.

Sherlock nodded against John's neck. "Of course. I just wanted you to be aware of my regard for you." Sherlock pressed a soft little kiss to the skin of John's throat, light enough to tickle. There was an intense flare of need inside of him at that. He was still quite hungry and John smelt of life and blood and even a bit of sweat from his nightmare and Sherlock found his mouth watering slightly, found the fangs trying to lengthen. He immediately rolled off of John and back to his previous spot. Sherlock made sure they were still touching, however, from shoulder to hip, side by side. None of that, he scolded himself. He also directed his libido to settle down. Rolling on top of John when he hadn't gotten off earlier was probably a bad idea in multiple ways. That shiver John gave was very enticing, and a part of Sherlock was telling him to see if he could draw it out again.

“It's hard for me to be aware of much else at the moment." He said breathlessly.  As for Sherlock rolling around, John didn't mind it, and while he would like to have cuddled back up as close to the vampire as he possibly could, but on second thought, it was much easier to think and to breathe this way, without a face full of vampire. John reached over and found Sherlock's hand and laced their fingers together, but otherwise didn't move. He closed his eyes and tried to breathe, to calm himself down. After several quiet minutes, he swallowed and said, "I mean it, you know. You can go get something to do, a book or a crossword or something. As long as I know you're around..."

Sherlock turned his head to the side to look at John. With a tiny little smirk he stretched as far from John as he could without breaking their hold and shoved a hand around until he could get his hand in the bottom drawer of the bedside table. He lifted John's little laptop out. Ignoring John's curious look, he slid up in bed until his back was to the headboard. He placed the computer on his knees, popped the screen up with one hand and, after about two minutes, cracked John's laptop password. "If I turn it so that the light is not in your face, do you think you will be able to sleep?" Sherlock thought nothing of the invasion of privacy. They were lying in bed together, nude, after John had been moments away from shoving his cock up Sherlock's arse. One cracked laptop password didn't seem too invasive to Sherlock.

John was incredulous. "Did you just guess my password? Really? After sixteen tries?" He shook his head then flopped back onto the pillows. Unbelievable. Nothing was safe. "Don't go snooping around in my files." He said. He really didn't have anything so incriminating on there, besides a modestly sized porn folder which really didn't contain anything he was ashamed of. Busty ladies with auburn hair, mostly, and a few pictures of ripped Californian surfers that, while the mention of them would make him blush, he wasn't worried about Sherlock seeing. There were files that were more important, though, saved correspondences from family and men who were now dead, and beloved photos of himself and his sister when they were younger, as well as the odd bits and pieces of history. He just didn't want those files tampered with.

Sherlock nodded and hummed his answer. He had no plans to tap in to anything private on John's laptop. That would be far too easy. Sherlock would much rather learn about John through observation and analysis and reading his life in the way he held himself. Sherlock's right hand flew over the keys from years of practice. His fingers barely made any sound as they pressed down. Those giant computers they had first come out with were horrible, too large and clunky. These smaller ones were fantastic. Sherlock loved technology. "I will be here when next you wake up, John. Feel free to sleep."

John nodded, after a long moment of watching Sherlock type in fascination.  He must have decades of practice at this, after all. "I was planning on it." John cuddled down, not worried about the light, and made himself comfortable in the comforter and pillows, before opening his eyes and spending a good long while just watching Sherlock's face in the faint blue illumination of the laptop screen. Beautiful. After everything that had transpired that night, calling Sherlock good looking, no matter what the particular adjective was, felt shallow, but someday soon he'd let Sherlock know. What had happened that night...John frowned as he thought about it. "Christ. It's only been a day and already..." He murmured, and closed his eyes, trying to take it in. "I think we've evolved to 'lovers', don't you?"

Sherlock turned his head once again to look at John. The only way to describe him at this moment was...adorable. He was burrowed down in to the blankets and pillows like an animal and Sherlock wanted to reach over and stroke his hands through John's dishwater hair. Why should he resist, actually? After only a small moment of hesitation he did just that, letting go of John's hand in favor of carding his fingers through his hair, stroking gently. Personally, he had been calling John 'mate' ever since the bond, and whether they were 'boyfriends' or 'lovers' was of no real concern to him. However, if it would please John, they could call each other whatever he wanted. "Well. That would be a correct term. Even if we didn't quite get to the best part, hmm?" He asked with a soft chuckle.

John hummed. Sherlock's fingers were so long, and if his typing was any indication, dexterous, and John's scalp was secretly sensitive. Mmm, that rubbing of fingers was just delectable, really. John gave a dry chuckle in response. "Well, I don't know about you, but I don't think we'll have to wait very long before I'm up for more. Maybe if I'm not sick or pissed at you or just up from some nightmares...Well, maybe not." He joked, but in all honesty, he didn't think that it would be long before he was latched onto Sherlock again. Maybe this time Sherlock would be willing to top HIM. Maybe he would growl, as promised. John gave another pleased shiver at the thought.

Sherlock had no trouble with his hands doing two completely different things - he had long since taught himself to be ambidextrous - and he discovered that he enjoyed stroking his fingers through John's hair. It was soothing, and John very clearly enjoyed it. Sherlock wouldn't mind spending the rest of his nights doing this, having one hand on John and the other taking care of his work. "I look forward to it, then." Sherlock tried very, very hard not to think about the next time John would be up for more, because then he really would have to drag himself off to have a wank in the bathroom alone. "You should try to get some more sleep now, John. Morning shall be here soon."

John practically purred at Sherlock's fingers through his hair, shifting his shoulder and cuddling down even more into the pillows to get the most comfortable. Ohhh, Sherlock's fingers ghosted right behind his ear, and he gave a soft little moan. If Sherlock's voice was hypnotic then so were his fingers. "Yep." He agreed softly, and stretched out one hand from under the covers to rest on Sherlock's leg. John thought that maybe, with every night like this, he might actually be able to get some rest once in a while. He'd be a lot less irritable, and a lot more capable of running through London with a death wish. "Night," He said as he fell peacefully into slumber.


	15. Chapter 15

Sherlock kept his fingers stroking through John's hair for several minutes after he was certain the other man was sleep, before he pulled his hand away to better type at the laptop. In the time before morning he solved two cases via email and got information for a third that he was planning to clear up via text later that day. He contentedly spent the rest of the night at John's side, working on that little laptop. Every now and then Sherlock would glance over to the side just to reassure himself John was still sleeping peacefully. Once when he glanced over he found five minutes had passed by the time he had looked away. He couldn't help it. He'd never been fascinated by someone so much that he wanted to actually observe them when they were doing nothing more interesting than sleep. As the sun gradually made itself known through John's bedroom windows, he clicked the laptop shut and placed it back in its resting place in the bottom drawer of the bedside table. Sherlock shifted in his position to once again slide his fingers gently along John's scalp. If he fell asleep so easily that way, perhaps he would like to be awakened like that as well?

As it turned out, he was. He actually perked out of sleep after the first few strokes from Sherlock's gentle fingers, eyes snapping open, not really ready for battle but coming aware all at one moment just in case. Once he realized where he was, and then who he was with, his body relaxed again, and then he let out a calming breath and stretched like a cat. It was light out. "Morning already?" He asked, though he really had gotten in a good sleep. Lord, if every day could be like that, they'd be in business. "Anything new on the tubes?" He asked, rolling over a bit onto his back and looking up at Sherlock, who was as put together as ever, and meanwhile John had completely ruffled bed hair and stale breath.

Sherlock withdrew his hand. He smiled softly at John's ruffled appearance. He really wasn't helping with the adorableness factor, what with the stretching like a cat on his back and looking generally kissable. Very, very kissable. "Good morning, John. Did you sleep well?" Sherlock could easily observe that he had, but it was best to ask. People did tend to get ticked off if he just assumed things, and while he didn't give two fucks what annoyed anyone else, he didn't really want to piss off John. It was a very odd experience for Sherlock. "And there is nothing of interest. Seems a quiet day. Besides the four serial suicides of course. I am certain Lestrade will be phoning me later. There's bound to be another."

John nodded, a rumbling in his throat, and then pushed himself up from the bed with a sound that one generally made when they have just woken up and are moving at all. It was a good sound for the morning. John glanced over at where he could see the shiny gloss of his laptop in the drawer. "Haven't broken it yet?" He asked, a silly little morning time joke. Once he'd confirmed that he wasn't in mortal danger, John became more or less useless until his first cup of coffee. He stretched again, and the blankets fell away, once more revealing chest, scar, tattoo. The doctor blinked his bleary eyes and took a long look at Sherlock, reminding himself of what his new lover looked like. Still obscenely attractive.  John leaned over and kissed him on a ridiculously high and pronounced cheekbone. "'Morning." He murmured softly.

Sherlock wasn't too happy that John's kiss to his cheek interrupted his ogling. John may accuse him of being ridiculously attractive, but if there is a better sight in the world than one John Watson, tanned and bare and rumpled, covered in only a bed-sheet, Sherlock did not want to know what it was. He wanted to shove John back down and then trace the scar and tattoo both with his tongue. And then move downwards until he had John moaning. But that might be a bit too intense for this earlier, right? John seemed to be barely functioning in the morning. Sherlock took note of that. He was sure that, had he come barging in to the room shouting about murders and serial killers, John's military-wired brain would have been up and running at a seconds notice. It was fascinating to note the differences in how he would have acted. Sherlock swung his legs out from the bed and stood. His hands settled on his hips as he turned to look at John. He was obviously very unconcerned with the fact that he was stark naked and standing with his back to the morning light so that everything was very, very visible. It was just a body, after all. Everything was transport. (And he had fully believed that, up until the moment he'd met John and had felt a faint stirring of lust that was attached not only to John's body but to his soul and mind as well.) "Right. Well. As I said, Lestrade should probably call soon, or text, or whatever manner he chooses based on his desperation, but I am guessing we will be to a crime scene today." Once again he simply assumed John would be coming. Where Sherlock went, John went too, and vice versa. It was just the way it was now.

John noticed it again, the "we", not as in the royal we, as in John and Sherlock we, and though he didn't comment on that, he grinned. "Brilliant!" He said, excited as a little kid who had been told they were going to the zoo. He got up and stretched a third time (it was a habit, normally when he woke up it was with all of his muscles tight after he'd had less than pleasant dreams), also obviously not self-conscious about his body. He was more comfortable casually dressed than naked, but he truly didn't care if Sherlock or anyone else saw him naked. John hoped that Sherlock found him attractive. John had always gotten the impression that he was at least average looking. Anyway, what with the crazy bond he knew Sherlock was with him, cared for him, even loved him, whether he was partial to the packaging or not.

If Sherlock had heard John's thoughts, he might just have smacked him in the head. Of course he was partial to the packaging as well as what lay inside. Watching John stretch all about caused his mouth to actually run dry. Sherlock mentally slapped himself instead and told his brain to get itself out of the gutter. He stepped past John to pause at the door. "I'll be taking a shower now. I can see you're in desperate need of a cup of coffee, so I'll leave you to it." He tipped his head in farewell and made his way in to the bathroom, stopping to snag a towel. For the second time in a row he had a nice long wank underneath the hot cascade of water. Sherlock was nearly certain he would die of unresolved sexual frustration soon.

If Sherlock had suggested that they shag right then, John probably would have accepted. Despite not being a natural morning person he was always up for some nice groggy morning sex. He was especially partial to being woken up with acts of sex, but that wasn't exactly the kind of thing you told someone upon meeting them. That said, he also hadn't woken up really in the mood, so it was not big deal that Sherlock wanted to take a shower. He wanted one himself, but coffee first, yes. John got on some sleep pants and his dressing gown and got to making some of that sweet nectar of life.

Sherlock finished his shower quickly, not wanting to sap all of the warm water out of tank. He toweled off and went about the rest of his morning routine, rubbing his hair dry and dressing meticulously. Even if he didn't much care if he was 'attractive' or not, Sherlock still liked to keep neat and clean. His person, at least. There was no way anyone could describe this flat as neat and clean. Afterwards he made his way out to the living room, sinking down to the couch with his cellphone in hand. He flicked through the news and police reports but paused to frown as his stomach gave a little grumble and made its displeasure known. He really did need to feed today. Sherlock's eyes drifted to the kitchen where he could hear John. He licked his lips. No, he scolded himself. Sherlock forced the hunger from his mind, resolved not to think about it, and went back to looking at his cellphone.

A few minutes later, and obviously in no hurry, John entered the room, his dressing gown showing a bit of his chest to where his sleep pants hung low on his hips, revealing the little happy trail of sandy colored hair disappearing under the green and red plaid. "Did you want me to pour you a cup?" He asked, taking a sip from his own and leaning up against the doorframe, because that was just what one did in the morning. His eyes traveled over Sherlock's form. Fuck, he'd looked good in more casual clothes yesterday (those JEANS!) but he looked even better made up. It didn't matter that his hair, as always, was everywhere. "Any news?"

Sherlock allowed his eyes to very obviously trail down John's chest, let them stop and stare at that little happy trail. John looked very alive right now, all warm and still slightly muddled from sleep. Sherlock shook his head. "No, thank you. No news yet, but it is still quite early in the morning." He'd much rather have some other things John would be able to offer- Stop that! Damn, but was he going to be distracted by his hunger all day? This wouldn't be good for work. He'd miss things. Sherlock stood from the couch and stepped past John in to the kitchen. To make it through he had to turn his body sideways slightly, and he inadvertently brushed his torso up against John. Sherlock ignored the flutter of warmth in his chest. Instead he slid the thermos out of the fridge and, making sure his face was turned from John's view, took one long draw. Almost immediately his eyes screwed shut and his throat labored to swallow. He barely got it down. Sherlock tried to lift the rim back to his lips, but it was impossible to even consider taking another pull of that foul stuff. He shoved it back in to the fridge with a grimace.

John let out a warm hum when Sherlock pressed past him and they touched. He wouldn't have minded a good morning snog. Actually, he might initiate one, if the timing was right and it struck his fancy. Sherlock was so nicely dressed it would be a shame to get him undressed, but a little macking it never hurt anybody. John followed Sherlock with his eyes, and frowned when Sherlock only had a little. "Are you quite alright?" John asked him with a bit of concern. He didn't particularly want to donate his blood to Sherlock right before they went on a case, but if Sherlock needed it.... He'd give it to him. It was his duty, as Sherlock's mate.

Sherlock cleared his throat before he turned around to answer. The disgust was completely hidden from his face, and since the bond still hadn't developed to allow John to sense his feelings in return, John would have no idea. "I'm perfectly fine, John. How is your cuppa?" He asked to change the topic. On his end, he wasn't sure he could handle a morning snog. Or an afternoon snog. In fact, coming in to too close contact with John would be an entirely bad idea right now. If he was close he would be able to see the pulse in John's throat, be able to intimately feel the beating of his heart, and that was simply too cruel to ask him to do when he was as hungry as he was. It was easier to ignore in the middle of the night, when everything was slowed down from sleep. But now, now John was awake and his body was all but humming, a siren’s call to Sherlock’s desperate hunger.

John seemed unconvinced, but he nodded. "It's alright. I'm going to step into the shower myself when I'm done with it." He said, letting Sherlock know of his plans. "Then maybe finish up some unpacking before we are spirited away."  John noticed then that Sherlock looked particularly pale. His translucent skin was lovely, actually, but John had a feeling it wasn't the best state for Sherlock to be in. "Maybe we should stop by your supplier at Saint Bart’s today." He said, in a voice that left no room for argument whatsoever. Sherlock needed SOMETHING. "What's her name? Maggie?"

Sherlock heard the tone in his voice, but he completely ignored it. He was very good at that. "Molly. Molly Hooper. But I told you, I am perfectly fine. There's no need to stop at Barts." He shook his head. There was no possible way he was going to be able to try and feed from a corpse. He could barely take in a single draw. The thought of actually feeding properly...Sherlock hoped his face wasn't turning green for John to observe. "Go, enjoy your shower." He very decidedly did not think about John's body naked and wet. Definitely did not...Hell, there was no lying to himself. He most certainly was. A very dull red dusted his high cheekbones. Sherlock whirled around to go back in to the living room, effectively ending the conversation.

John frowned. Sherlock really didn't eat much, did he, even by a vampire's standard. John crossed his arms, unhappy that Sherlock was ending the conversation. He gave a harrumph and followed him. He just didn't get it. Why was Sherlock acting this way if he didn't want John to think something was up? He was rather obvious, after all. John bit his lip. He'd asked for honesty, transparency, and he had a feeling that wasn't what he was getting. John knew it was invasive, but how was he supposed to know if something was wrong if Sherlock didn't tell him? John didn't want Sherlock's pride or anything else that stupid hurting one of them. John decided he'd give Sherlock another chance. This time, rather than loud, and commanding, his voice was gentle, soft. "Sherlock...You're sure nothing's wrong?" He asked again, just to confirm, and Sherlock could hear the honest worry in his voice.

Sherlock glanced up at him, face perfectly composed to hide his inner thoughts that were basically screaming at him. Sherlock knew that this was unhealthy, that not feeding for so long after using his gifts was going to have bad consequences. But he couldn't stomach that shit in the thermos, nor would it be any better from an actual corpse, and there was no way he was drinking from John and causing him to get weak. Sherlock purposely softened his voice in return when he responded, "I've told you. I am fine. There's no need to worry, John." It hurt, just a bit, to be lying to John when he had promised him honesty. Very rarely did Sherlock ever make real promises, but when he did, he kept them. It was a matter of honor. But for once he could care less about the honor. It hurt because he was lying to John. Caring, lovely, gentle, strong, vicious John. He was like a walking contradiction. Steel muscles hidden under warm, cuddly jumpers. A healers hands that were steady on a scalpel as well as a gun. It really was no wonder Sherlock had fallen so hard and so fast.

And John almost, almost fell for it. Sherlock's voice was soft and his face was almost contrite. And Sherlock HAD said that he would be honest...Maybe things really were fine. John blinked at him for a moment, and then nodded. "Alright, well...Good then." He didn't know quite if he should believe him, and he was perplexed as hell, but he at least now believed him enough to end the conversation. John ducked his head in a little nod and then headed off for the shower, and of course Sherlock was all he could think about for the duration. Was Sherlock lying? Was he actually okay? Was he going to feed from John anytime soon? Would it be like it was that first night? Then his train of thought got dirtier and before he was done he had a good wank. The real question was, if he wasn't drinking blood that wasn't Johns, and he wasn't drinking John's blood, how the fuck did he plan on staying alive?

Sherlock spent the time John was in the shower simply resting with his eyes closed. He had spent the entire night motionless and if not for his severe hunger, he wouldn't really be tired. But today he knew he was going to have to take it easy, to minimize his motions even more than usual. Sherlock stopped abruptly as he felt just what exactly John was doing during his shower. Oh, God. He didn't have enough blood in his body to be aroused right now, after his own wank. Sherlock began running random calculations in his head so that he didn't focus on John. It didn't work too well, so he switched to translating an old medical text he'd memorized in to Latin. That worked a bit better. Sherlock did this until John was finished, where he then stopped and let out a long breath.

John finished up and got dressed, including his ID tags under his jumper. He usually did this when he had a nightmare that particularly bothered him. The metal felt cool and familiar against his skin, and it gave him a measure of comfort to have them on. Once he was done he began to work on boxes, emptying them and putting every bit and piece in place. He looked at his pillow where it lay on the bed, and wondered if it was worth asking Sherlock to consolidate bedrooms. That way he could give Mrs. Hudson her extra one back.

Sherlock glanced up sharply as his phone gave a pinging noise, announcing he had a text message. He fished it out of its place in his pocket and flicked his thumb to open the text. "Yes!" He leapt from the couch and almost immediately regretted it. His head swam and he tipped to the side slightly. Oh. This was not good at all. What if they needed to chase the criminal tonight? At this point John could outpace him. Sherlock shook his head, willing the dizziness to pass. "John!" He called, "Lestrade has phoned. There's been another suicide. And a note! Oh, but it's Christmas!" Sherlock would have twirled around in eagerness if he hadn't been sure it would probably have made him vomit.

John popped down out of his bedroom and down the stairs quick as the wind, which was wonderful, something he hadn't done in far too long. Quickly going down stairs was a gift he'd taken for granted, and now it made him so happy he could hardly contain himself, when added to the promise of a case, of some danger. He hoped they'd be running around of ROOFTOPS for goodness sake! "Excellent!" He said, and leaned over near the door to get his shoes on before pulling his coat around his shoulders. He was ready to go. "Do you think I should be packing?" He asked.

Sherlock slid his coat on to his shoulders and wrapped the scarf quickly about his neck. "Perhaps not the best choice for right now. Lestrade or any of the others may notice, and then we'd be in quite the predicament." He finishes buttoning up the coat the hides almost his entire body and tips his head to the door. "Let’s go!" He's giddy from excitement. That first night hadn't been a real case; he'd rigged everything so that John would lose the limp. This was their first real case together. He was going to enjoy this.

John nodded. There was a side of him that loved the feeling of having a firearm at his side, it made him feel powerful, and of course there was a measure of security to it, but Sherlock was right, it was indeed very impractical and even dangerous. If they were only to be inspecting crime scenes, and not to be chasing down dangerous criminals, there really was no need for it. It was sort of frivolous to carry it with him if he didn't think he'd need it. "Just as well." He gave a little chuckle. "I'm so enamored with the gun you gave me that I might have to take it out and admire it once in a while."

Sherlock shakes his head with a bemused expression on his face. "I don't think I'll ever understand your fascination with that gun. I've certainly had more expensive ones in my hands over the years, and while that one is quite old and, I suppose, quite beautiful to a certain eye, it's just...another weapon. I've seen many." Sherlock shrugs as they make their way to the road. His hand comes up in a practiced motion to hail a cab. Sherlock barely glances at the man as he slides in and gives the address.

John looked at him exasperatedly.  He didn't know how Sherlock could just see it as, well, nothing. The gun was beautiful, and John couldn't help but cherish it, not just because it was expensive and gorgeous but because it was a gift. John was the kind of person who had a special place in his heart for gifts, even if they weren't very good ones. He had shoe boxes filled with cheesy birthday cards and some of his jumpers were handmade by his sister. The gun was from Sherlock, and he'd keep it. He'd put it to use. He appreciated it. And now that Sherlock was beginning to actually mean something to him, the gun was only going up in value. After a moment Sherlock could only shake his head, dismissing him. "One man's rubbish is another man's treasure." He said, joining Sherlock in the cab.

"You would have been quite astounded at some of the rubbish I've thrown out, then, if the gun seems that good to you." Sherlock didn't think he'd ever understand the deeper emotional meaning behind gifts. He'd grown up with a family that, despite not being human, had been the type that people would describe as bathing in aristocracy. Gifts were just...things. Shaking his head and deciding they would most likely never see eye to eye on this matter, Sherlock very subtly slid along with the motion of the car until he was as far from John as possible. Only a fool courts temptation.

John shook his head. "It's a beautiful piece and it's comparatively valuable. Plus, YOU gave it to me." John crossed his arms, not much caring that Sherlock was keeping away from him. "That makes it even more valuable than the money it's worth. Does that not make sense to you?" The ex-soldier huffed. John would have thought that Sherlock would understand the meaning of a gift from a lover, but perhaps not. John would be sure to remember that. He was partial to giving gifts as much as he was to receiving them, but if Sherlock was more likely to ignore them than appreciate them, he'd try to do that sparingly.

"I suppose, in a way." He answered. Gifts had never had sentimental value for him before, whether he was giving them or receiving them. He had never had a gift from a lover, mainly because he had never bothered to form an actual relationship with any of them. They had all either been pawns in furthering his seduction skills or simply something to relieve the tension. But if Sherlock were to get a gift from John, he would probably treasure it just as John seemed to treasure the gun. Sherlock shifted around so he could watch John's expressions. "Does it upset you? That I don't seem to value the gift as much as you do?"

John frowned as he thought of it.  DID it bother him? "Well...Yes, but it's not...It bothers me that you don't understand the concept of being happy about a gift, of feeling sentimental about something someone beloved gave you, but it doesn't...It's not a big deal, really. I'll just keep it in mind and only get you presents if I've got a good one." He said, assuring Sherlock that he wouldn't have to feel so much for an inanimate object unless it was worth it. "People like seeing things that remind them of the people they like. I think I'll like being reminded of you when I aim it, every time. How's that?"

If Sherlock hadn't been sure he probably would have shoved his face in John's neck if he'd touched him at the moment, he most likely would have reached out and placed a hand on John's knee. But that would have been sheer idiocy. Instead he simply nodded, a tight little controlled motion. "I understand. I..." He paused, to look John in the eye. "I think I will like that. Knowing you think of me when you use it. And I expect you'll use it an awful lot in this line of work." His lips quirked up in a genuine smile. Not a moment later, though, his face melted back in to its standard cold facade. He needed to stay away from John at the moment, emotionally and physically. The physical bit was obvious, but the emotional bit might only lead to the physical. It actually pained him, somewhere in his chest, that he couldn't show his affection obviously right now. It was a very odd thing for him. He'd never before wanted to show affection, let alone do so in public - even if the public at the moment consisted of the cabbie in the front seat.

Luckily (or perhaps unluckily), John didn't try to touch Sherlock either, didn't even think of it, but his lips quirked up and open in a wide smile that was just as sincere as Sherlock's. Sherlock did get it, did understand the emotional attachment of a gift, just....Backwards. And that was perfectly fine. Sherlock could feel John's pleasure in his head, not a sexual thing in the least bit, just a warm, open happiness that seemed to explode out of him.  "I'm not sure if that's a good thing or a bad thing. I'd rather not actually hurt anyone if it's avoidable." Those words let Sherlock know that if it wasn't avoidable, he'd kill for him. A simple comment, not meant to hold so much meaning, but it did. John paused for a moment and then asked, "Do you think I should carry around the silver shots?" He asked, and _there_ was a question. He would have that control over Sherlock, but should he also have the means to off him in a second if need be? That wasn't what John meant at all, but it was a possible interpretation.

Sherlock tipped his head back against the seat rest, swimming in John's happy emotions. When he was too distracted to block them properly they made him feel like he was floating. It wasn't a bad thing, but it did make it harder to focus. He'd have to gather himself and force it aside by the time they got to the crime scene, but he saw no harm in indulging in it for the moment. But he had to struggle out of the fog already, to consider and answer John's question. It was probably for the best...On the off chance that they encountered another vampire, it'd be best that John could injure it. And also, on the off chance that he would need to protect himself from Sherlock. "If you'd like. I'd recommend it, just in case. We may run in to another of my kind someday." He added the next bit in the same tone as the first, frankly and in a perfectly level tone that suggested he thought nothing of it. "You most likely won't need to use them on me, what with your ability to incapacitate me. Speaking of, we really should practice with that, to let you learn how to use it now for if you ever actually need to use it..."

John winced. "God, Sherlock, what reason would I have to shoot you?" He asked, clearly alarmed. He shook his head, and then considered the more interesting idea of him having to incapacitate Sherlock. "Yes, perhaps we should, that might be safest. But...When? And how?" John didn't know what kind of situation he'd HAVE to incapacitate Sherlock in. For being a "monster" Sherlock was very tame. John wasn't worried about Sherlock trying to kill him or anybody else, so John didn't know what kind of trouble he could get into that John might have to put to an end, but it was still...Safe to know that he had the option in the case that he needed it.

Sherlock hummed in the back of his throat and crossed his legs in front of him. "There's always the possibility you'd need to, for some reason." Perhaps he'd tip from sociopath to psychopath one day and it'd be safer for John to shoot him. The possibilities were endless. You never know. That was the point. Now, with the other subject, he wasn't sure how to respond. He'd suggested they practiced, but on second thought he didn't know WHEN they'd be able to. His weakened body would not take well to that type of pain right now, and Sherlock didn't know when the foul taste of regular blood would fade enough for him to feed. "Normally, the two would agree on a phrase and the bond would recognize it. But...The bond doesn't seem to connect from you to me, only from me to you. This may not even be possible. But it's worth a try later. In case I should ever attack you."

"Yes, alright. Just...Let me know when you're ready for it, then. I'm in no hurry, but sooner than later would probably be better, yeah?"  John nodded, and then gave him a sideways glance. "Is it painful? The incapacitation, I mean.  I'll do it if I have to, and I'll do it for the practice, but if it's going to hurt you, I'd rather... Well, keep it strictly for emergencies, of course." John didn't really relish the idea of seeing Sherlock doubled over with pain. John knew what it could be like. Every day pains were well bearable, nothing but minor annoyances, and then ligger pains, like being stabbing in the arm or spraining an ankle, well, they bloody well hurt but they were still manageable. There were other pains though, like getting shot... Like having your insides on fire with blood from something man was never meant to touch...If he'd be inflicting that kind of pain on Sherlock he'd really like a heads up.

Sherlock gave a dry chuckle. "Of course it hurts, John, that's how you're incapacitating me. It hurts so much that the body freezes, it locks up. I saw Mummy use it on Father once when I was a child. It's not pretty, but it works." Pain was nothing to him. He could easily ignore it, even liked a bit of it during sex, but this was a different type entirely. This would be agonizing, so much so that his brain would most likely flatline for a bit. But that was the point. He'd be in so much pain his muscles would lock and, should he be attacking John, that would give him more than enough time to get away or coat himself in chains of silver, or whatever he wanted to do.

John swallowed. Shit, that was what he'd thought. "Hopefully when we practice we'll get it in one." He said, voice low, and Sherlock could feel these emotions too. Dread, of having to hurt Sherlock that way, even defensiveness of Sherlock's wellbeing. John intended to be there, for the testing. When Sherlock came back to himself, he wouldn't be alone, and he wouldn't find John untouchable. He'd be there holding him and rubbing his sore muscles and distracting him with soft words and softer kisses. John wouldn't allow it to be any other way.

Sherlock took in a deep breath to steel himself, locked his willpower as well as he could, and placed his hand on John's knee like he had wanted to before. As soon as he felt the other man's warmth he wanted to curl up closer and taste in his mouth. He grit his teeth and patted John's knee in a show of comfort - which was odd, considering he would be the one in pain. But it clearly upset John more than it did him. Sherlock pulled his hand away as soon as he was done and took one more slow breath before he spoke. "It'll be fine." He said. They could talk about this later if John wanted, but the cab had just pulled up on the opposite side of the road from their destination. Police line and cop cars had blocked the building off.

John gave a little chuckle and Sherlock could see the discomfort in his eyes as well as the determined solidarity. "I know it'll be fine." Sometimes you just had to grit your teeth and bear the unbearable. It was the way things were, John knew that better than most and he wasn't afraid of it. Testing this ability out was important, could, in some situation, somehow, mean life or death. It would be incredibly stupid not to make sure that it worked. "Doesn't mean it's a nice thought." Sherlock's hand on his knee WAS comforting, and warm even through his glove. John was half tempted to grab it in his own as he withdrew, but then they were at the crime scene, and it was time to learn what an actual case might be like while walking with Sherlock Holmes. John mustered a little grin for it. Their previous conversation made it a little bit stiff, but it was sincere. He was excited for this. "Let's go, then." He said, getting up and out of the cab like a pro, glad he didn't have to lever himself out of it anymore.

Sherlock slid out of the car after John, readjusting his coat even though it didn't need it. Habits die hard, after all. He nods his head in a signal to John to head towards the angry looking woman with her arms crossed.

"Did he kidnap you?" Sally Donovan asks John as they walk up, face faux serious and words hard. "I'm a police officer, you can tell me if he's kidnapped you and is forcing you to follow him around."

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "Good afternoon to you as well, Sally. I don't believe you were introduced before. We simply had to dash. This is John Watson, my-" His hesitation is very small, only a moment, but for that second he stumbles over what to call John. Co-worker? Friend? If he went with the first he would be signifying that John was important, was part of the work. If he went with the second he would make it obvious that John wanted to be here, not just as work. Well. Why not both, he thought, "My colleague and friend. Now, could you step aside? I believe Lestrade has a body for us to look at." He sweeps past without waiting for an answer, leaving John on the other side to deal with a very surprised Donovan if he wants to.

John gave a laugh and raised both of his brows at Donovan. Sherlock's description of him, as friend and colleague, made him feel warm and official and like he belonged there despite having absolutely nothing to do with law enforcement. After Sherlock was gone, John gave her a sympathetic smile. "I really do want to be here, with him. I won't say it's not crazy, but it's quite voluntary, so....Erm, don't worry about it." He gave her a crazy smile like he couldn't quite believe he was there either, and he turned to follow Sherlock's swirling coat.

Sherlock slid right past Anderson, the oblivious idiot, and was up the stairs in a moment, following the sound of Lestrade's voice directing people. There'd be no way to avoid him later, Sherlock was sure, when he decided Sherlock had been mucking things up enough, but he was content to avoid Anderson for the time being. No need to ruin his perfectly fine day with that man's stupidity. He hesitated on the last step, waiting for John to catch up and to eye the disgusting blue hazard suits in distaste. There was no way he was putting one of those things on. It'd clash horribly with his clothing and it would make noise every time he moved.

John, on the other hand, despite being validated by Sherlock's calling him a colleague and friend, still considered himself a guest and was willing to put on the mandated (except for Sherlock Holmes, apparently) bunny suit, even if it was extremely silly looking. Once suited up, he joined Sherlock in the top room, where there was a woman dressed in an obscene amount of pink, dead on the floor. John didn't comment about Sherlock, but he did catch Lestrade's eye, and the two men gave each other an almost unsure smile. If John could rein Sherlock in, or focus him even more, Lestrade wasn't going to ask him to leave, certainly. Instead, the two men in the ridiculous looking getups stood back and let Sherlock get to it.

Sherlock went straight to work, kneeling by the body, examining her clothing and jewelry and every other little detail that anyone else would have dismissed as insignificant, but which he knew to be a valuable piece of information. His fingers slid around the rim of her collar, then dipped in to her pocket to extract the dry umbrella. He very carefully lifted her hand to look at her nails, then laid it back down and traced a finger over the 'RACHE' carved in the floor. He kneeled by her head. "John," He made a vague 'come here' motion. "From a medical professional, time and cause of death?" His voice was very carefully contained, he made sure not to let his voice betray any of his excitement. Lestrade wouldn't understand it.

John looked her over, leaning down himself, glad in this as well that he didn't need his cane to hold him up, didn't have to adjust his leg as he did so. John was quite excited as well, and he felt even sillier trying to keep it held back with Sherlock. John wanted to know what Sherlock saw in her, but he could give his own knowledge first. John looked her over, touched her sparingly. "Died sometime last night. Asphyxiation, but not alcohol related. Poison of some sort." He looked up as Sherlock, almost completely sure he was right, but still looking for Sherlock's approval.

Sherlock nods in response to John's findings. He'd thought so. Best to always have the experts check, though. Sherlock was intelligent, and intelligent people knew when to admit they didn't know things. Not everyone could be an expert on everything, even him. "Right!" He said, bouncing up to his feet. "She's had a string of lovers - she's a very clever woman, hiding them all from her husband, whom she has been married to for over ten years, but definitely not happily - and she was only here for the night. Going by the rather alarming abundance of that shade of pink, she worked in the media. She's just come from Cardiff and...Where's her suitcase?" He ignored Lestrade's skeptical look. No matter how many times they did this, he still seemed to think Sherlock was pulling his leg. Sherlock whirled around, the coat twirling with him, as he glanced around the little room for the suitcase the woman should have had. "Where is it? Did she eat it? I need that suitcase!"

Lestrade was too fascinated by all of the things that Sherlock knew. "Wait, just a second, how do you know all that?" He was extremely interested and amused by Sherlock's ingenious, obviously, not to mention he needed the information to validate his having Sherlock around at all. John was interested too. He hadn't actually seen Sherlock in full force, in action, but he knew that Sherlock was fully in his element. Truth be told, the whole show of confidence and genius was kind of, well, sexy. Sherlock seemed more on his game than John had seen him, and he had even seemed off all morning. John watched him, waiting for an explanation.

Sherlock sighed. Why can't people just see? Everything is so very obvious, and they would realize that if they just looked. Sherlock glanced over at John just once before he began his explanations, feeling his seeming appreciation. Interesting.  "The wedding ring - obviously an old make so she has been married for more than ten years. It's dirty on the outside, very dirty, she doesn't care enough to clean it. State of the marriage right there. But the inside is shiny as can be. She spends a lot of time working it on and off her finger, so. String of lovers. She's only here for the night, going by the size of her suitcase, you can tell by the pattern of mud stains on her ankles," He gestures at the stains on her tights. "The coat is wet but the umbrella dry, so not only was it raining, it was windy, far too windy for an umbrella. Where is it currently raining with strong gusts of wind? Cardiff. Check the news if you'd like." He gestures once again to encompass the entire room. "Now. Where's her suitcase? Who took it?"

Anderson pops his head in to the room, scowl seemingly fixed in place in Sherlock's presence. "There was no suitcase, you raving lunatic. We didn't find one."

Sherlock stops his pacing around the room. No suitcase? Where could it have been, then - "Oh. Ohh! Serial killers are wonderful, so skilled, but they all make a mistake eventually!" He clapped his hands in front of his face like an excited child, the glee finally starting to show on his face and in his frantic mannerisms.

Anderson scoffs, "What? He's obviously insane, Greg, why do you put up with him? Look, let us get back to the scene and take care of it. He's not even mentioned the note! Rache, it's German for revenge, obviously she's German-" The door is slammed shut in his face.

"Yes, thank you for your input. It's not Rache, it's Rachel." He turned to Lestrade. "Perhaps a daughter or a sister. Is that enough information for you to file away? If we find the suitcase, we find the killer. He has it."

Once Sherlock was done ranting, another intense sensation, almost as intense as the information rushing at Sherlock, became known in the back of his head. It was John's feelings, and John....Well, appreciative didn't quite cut it, did it? If Sherlock were to look at him to confirm the emotions swirling in his head of real, obvious, embarrassing arousal, he'd see slightly flushed cheeks, dilated pupils, and a telltale bulge that spoke volumes. Fuck, Sherlock really WAS on his game, so much that he didn't even skip a beat when interrupted by Anderson. He was so confident, so fierce in his thoughts, and god, they were AMAZING. Sherlock's warm, breathless voice didn't much help either, nor did all that graceful prancing around, the way his hands moved and gestured while he spoke. John caught his eye and his excitement was as clear as day. "Brilliant." He breathed.

Sherlock does his best not to show any signs that he's suddenly feeling all of John's very focused arousal, but he cannot help the tensing of his body. Ah. Ahh, that is wonderful. John is turned on by his deductions. That, in turn, turns Sherlock on rather a lot. He turns to look at John, which was probably a very bad idea, because you don't need to be as keen as Sherlock to notice that John is aroused. The flush is lovely and it sets off every instinct in Sherlock's head to go right over and take what would be offered up so easily. Oh, Gods, but he's so hungry right now, and John look so tempting, and he's not just hungry for the blood...Sherlock swallows hard. "Right. Well." He turns back to Lestrade, trying to keep control over his body. It's harder than it should be. He's feeling light headed again, much like he did in the car, but this time it's not as enjoyable. "I've given you all the information you need. We've got to find that suitcase. So, John and I will just be off..." It's even harder to speak normally. Good God, what is happening to him.  

John knew that Sherlock could feel him, and he gave him a half shy, half sly smile.  Well, what did Sherlock think about that?  Sherlock's stilted way of speaking let John know that he wasn't the only one affected by his own arousal.  Sherlock says they are leaving, though, so John takes a breath and thinks of a time he had to amputate a young civilian girl's leg, and how those saws took your whole body weight and even if you had already broken the bone it took a lot of working at raw flesh- That helped his arousal quite a bit. His face was still red when he stood up, though, rosy almost like St. Nick, and oh, was John jolly. "Yes, it seems like we've got all we need here." John said, hoping that was actually true because he didn't know a damn thing and he didn't know if Sherlock had all the information he needed, or if they were just leaving because Sherlock wanted to shag John in a back alley somewhere.

Sherlock really would have liked it if they'd been leaving because he had all the information and because he wanted a quick shag in an alley. Unfortunately, they were leaving not just because they had the information, but because he needed to leave before he threw himself at John's neck right in front of Lestrade. That would have been a messy situation. He'd have had to glamour Lestrade, and he didn't know how John would react to that, and also he'd have broken his vow of not feeding on John. So. Best for them to leave, and right quickly. Sherlock swept out the door, stumbling ever so slightly on the first step. He still managed to cast Anderson a scathing glare, though, so he knew he wasn't too bad off. Sherlock was down the stairs and outside in moments, drawing in fresh air untainted for the moment by the scent of John's blood or his arousal.

John looked up at him. "So...?" He asked expectantly, once they were out. He'd seen Sherlock stumble, and it made sense because he was rushing on those long gangly legs of his, but...Well, it was odd. Sherlock ran around like an idiot, but usually it was with the utmost grace. Sherlock Holmes, the graceful idiot. That's exactly what he was. John had never seen him even in fear of tripping before. John also didn't think he was the type to be embarrassed by a poorly timed erection. "You were extraordinary in there, you know. Magnificent, even."

Sherlock hails another cab before turning to John. "That? That was nothing. Everything in that room was very obvious. The only thing I didn't see was why they were taking the poison...But, thank you, I suppose." He nearly stumbled again when he stepped off the curb towards the car. Fuck, something was majorly wrong and his brain wasn't working fast enough and all he could think about was biting the fuck out of John or perhaps the cabbie or maybe one of the police officers loitering about. At this point he wasn't picky, didn't even care any of the other ones would taste disgusting. He slid gracelessly in to the seat, and then scooted over so John could get in. "So. The murderer would have noticed the suitcase within a few minutes - it's bright pink and obviously doesn't belong - and he would have tossed it as soon as possible. We'll have to search every bin within five miles-" He paused as his head gave a particularly violent whirl. Nothing seemed to be staying where it belonged. Sherlock forgot the thread of what he'd been saying.

And now that he'd tripped twice and flopped into a cab and had lost his train of thought, John knew that something was wrong. He got in the cab and closed the door, encasing his scent in the tiny metal box with Sherlock. In fact, the pounding of his blood was even AUDIBLE now. John scooted closer to him and put a hand on his shoulder. "Something's wrong." He said, and he wasn't aroused anymore because he knew trouble when he saw it and Sherlock trouble might have been the worst kind of trouble. "Sherlock, tell me what's up. Be. Honest."

Sherlock gave a violent jerk away from John, his hand flew quickly to his mouth to hide the fangs suddenly protruding there, and he all but hissed, "Dear God, don't touch me!" The scent was swirling around the car and around his head and he could hear John's pulse throbbing, calling and calling to him in an endless song. He couldn't remember ever feeling like this before. It seemed all his strength was sapped from his limbs and the only thing he could focus on was John, but not in a good way. His vision tunneled and a low moan of pain escaped his lips.

John pulled his hand away like he was being burned. Fuck, fuck, what was going on? Sherlock's eyes were unfocused, and he was actually blanching, which should be impossible for someone that pale. John's pulse had spiked and was now a constant thumping cacophony.  "Talk to me, Sherlock, you have to talk to me. You're going to pass out. Take a deep breath and tell me what's happening so I can get you help." He didn't try to touch Sherlock again- obviously it wasn't helping...But what the hell was all of this, then!?

Sherlock groaned, a pained noise that faded off in to a truly alarming whimper. He swallowed, trying to speak, trying to tell John what he thought was wrong, but he couldn't force the words out of his dry throat. John's now rapid pulse didn't help at all, it was just driving Sherlock closer and closer to the edge. Sherlock's vision was now completely blurred and his heart seemed to be trying to match the rate of John's. "John,” He manages to gasp out before he surrenders himself to the endless black of unconsciousness. He hopes he's not terrified John too much with this right before he fades out.

Of course, he has terrified John too much. John sees him pass out and despite his plea not to be touched John reaches forward and lightly smacks Sherlock's face, hoping to wake him, and to no avail. "Shit." He takes a deep breath and thinks this out. No guarantee Sherlock will sleep this through. No guarantee he won't die. But he needs medical attention, a kind that John is sure he can't provide, no matter how similar their physiologies are. He can't bring him to Bart’s, because then he'll be dissected by human doctors...Who could he possibly call who knew about vampires? Calling Mycroft was out of the question...So what was he to do? John thought hard, mind racing, and in his own bit of brilliance, he remembered her. John cleared his throat. "Ah, sorry, my mate..." John meant it in the "Friends" meaning of the word and not the "Eternally bonded soulmates who are meant to fuck and procreate" meaning. "He gets dizzy spells sometimes. Do you think you could drive us to St. Bart’s, just in case?" He asked, hoping the cabbie would comply.

Sherlock moans softly in his unconsciousness, still feeling the ache in his stomach despite not even being awake.  It's like his body is still aware that John is nearby but not close enough to attack, and it hurts. Oh, but it hurts. Like a dull aching wound that's suddenly been hit again. His head lolls to the side as the cabbie takes a sharp turn to get them on the way to Bart’s.

In the meantime, he called Bart’s. When the secretary answered, he asked for her, Molly Hooper. She wasn't in, and they wouldn't give him an address, but they'd give him her number. He called that next. A giggly young woman's voice answered the phone. "Molly here! Who's this?" Obvious she didn't have his number in her caller ID. He answered her. "John Watson. There's something wrong with Sherlock, he's passed out. I don't know what to do with him. Will you take a look?" She was quiet for a moment, while she paused to talk to someone else in the room. John could hear her telling someone that a friend was coming over soon that needed a favor and it was urgent and very private and that whoever was with her should probably go. Then she spoke into the phone again. "Yes, of course, can you bring him over?" John relayed the address to the cabbie and then they were off once more. When John got there, he pulled the unwieldy Sherlock up out of the cab. Then, because he was much, much stronger than his tiny frame suggested, he scooped Sherlock up like a bride. A long bride with a lot of limbs. He was halfway up the drive when Molly's front door open, and a twitchy looking man who was as diminutive as he was stepped out, after kissing Molly on the cheek. Despite liking men as much as women, and having a gay sister, John's gaydar was terrible, but you'd have to be blind not to know the guy was a poof. Molly was all happy and blushing until she noticed the two of them, and then her eyes widened. John realized that Sherlock's mouth was hanging open, and jostled him a bit so his head was no longer facing the man. He didn't stop except to glance at Molly and then begin hurrying away, and John breathed a sigh of relief, thinking that the man hadn't seen Sherlock's pearly (stabby) whites. "Um, well, bye then, Molly, see you tomorrow!" He called bashfully. Molly, who had already opened the door so wide for John that it was nearly as widely opened as her eyes, called back, "Bye Jim, Sorry about this!"

John carried Sherlock inside, and then promptly didn't ask permission before laying him out on her couch. "What happened?" She asked, leaning over him and opening one of his eyes with her fingertips, being as careful and delicate as if he were one of her corpses.

John shook his head. "He started acting strangely, forgetting what he was talking about, and stumbling. Then he passed out. It was very sudden, actually." John pointedly didn't tell her about his stiffy. "He yelled at me not to touch him and then passed out. Luckily, we were already in the cab."

She nodded, and took a good look at his fangs. She didn't know everything about real life vampires, but she knew enough. "His fangs are out. That's voluntary when he feeds, or involuntary when he's very hungry." She didn't know that they also came out when he was aroused, but she'd seen him on the tail end of long cases where he'd put off eating more than she'd have liked to. Those days were scary. "He's one day overdue to see me for more blood, but if he's been drinking what he brought back from Bart’s with him, he shouldn't be keeling over." She frowned. "Did he do anything very difficult today? Or anything…Particularly vampirey?"

John thought about it, and rather than explaining, simply answered "Yes." She frowned again. "Well, we could try feeding him and seeing if that's it." John made a noise of disgust. "That idiot, that complete and utter imbecile. I TOLD him to tell me if there was something wrong. He probably can't stomach the stuff he's got, so why didn't he just ASK me?! I'm more than willing to give him a pint or two and he KNOWS it so what in the bloody hell does he think he's doing!?" Molly blinked at him with wide eyes. "You'd let him drink from you?" John sighed softly. "Well, He's my mate, isn't he?" That time he meant it in both meanings of the word. Molly shook her head. "I can't believe it. You actually accepted it? After he put that glamour on you?!" John sighed laboriously. "Yes, I know, I'm bonkers." He said, and then shook his head at her. "Do you have a kitchen knife I can borrow?" Her eyes widened, but she swallowed and left the room to return with the sharp object. John cut himself above the wrist, in the meaty part of his arm, slicing the blade cleanly over skin, wincing slightly but otherwise giving no sign that he was in pain whatsoever. He cut it so that it would bleed, but it would also heal.  He held the dripping wound over Sherlock's open mouth, reaching forward at the same time with his other hand to push curls away from Sherlock's face.

Sherlock's body lurches up as soon as John spills his blood. His eyes are still closed but his hand's shoot up to grasp John, hands bracketing the wound. He pulls it down to his mouth and very firmly slots his lips over it. With the first drag of his tongue the wound begins bleeding even more, but the pain is already starting to dull and fade for John. Sherlock makes soft little suckling sounds as he finally, finally has something in front of him that doesn't make him want to gag. A little moan escapes between John's skin and Sherlock's lips. His eyes flutter once, twice, and then they lift to show very glazed and bleary silver eyes. He's awake, now, but still not completely aware of what's going on, only that he's desperately hungry and there's a means of appeasing that hunger right under his lips.

John startled a bit when Sherlock yanked him in, and so did Molly, who gave a little squeak, worried for John's safety. Once Sherlock had fully latched on, John let him, moving from pushing back his hair to gently stroking his face while Sherlock fed, still dazed. "That's right, darling." He murmured softly, letting Sherlock take what he needed. He'd have words for Sherlock later, but right now he was not well, and John was a healer if nothing else. He sighed softly as his wound stopped stinging.

Sherlock's eyes were heavily lidded as he shoved his way up to his knees, letting John's arm fall from his grasp. That had been enough to knock him out of his faint, but he wanted more - no, he needed more. It was pure instinct that had him lifting his head up, had him staring with blurred eyes at the vein throbbing in John's neck, had him leaning closer and tipping John's head to the side in the blink of an eye - but still gently. He may have been completely out of it, but the bond still recognized that this was his mate and there was no way he was going to hurt him. He dragged his tongue over the juncture where John's neck met his shoulder before he sunk his fangs in with a long, low moan of pleasure.

One arm circled Sherlock's back and held him steady, supporting him, and the other came up to curl in Sherlock's dark curls which were soft as ever. He couldn't help a second moan then, as he felt Sherlock's hot lips suckling around the skin where Sherlock was feeding. "Fuck." John breathed, forgetting that Molly was there entirely. She stood with her hands covering her mouth and her eyes wide and dark and her own cheeks red. Fuck if this wasn't the hottest (and scariest) thing she'd ever seen in her life. A vampire feeding was extremely intimate, extremely sensual, and she couldn't avert her eyes for the life of her.

Sherlock pressed his body flush against John, and with the height difference lessened by him kneeling on the couch, they were nearly perfectly aligned. Sherlock's other teeth came down again, squeezing John's neck around the wound so that more blood flowed. One arm looped around John's waist much like there was one around his, but he used this hold to drag John closer to him. Sherlock's eyes slid closed and he leaned back and away, just a bit, to slowly lick his lips in a motion that was very sexual, despite being accidental.  He made an odd rumbling noise in his chest that would be best likened to the purr of a large cat, something like a lion or jaguar. His eyes slid open and this time they were glazed with a more regular kind of lust. He too was too far gone to notice poor Molly, however, and he simply lowered his head to lap at the last few trickles of blood like the cat he was currently seemingly trying to vocally imitate.

John gasped when Sherlock bit him, letting his head fall all the way back until he was stretched out all the way, making ample room for Sherlock. He rumbled low in his throatas Sherlock pulled his body closer, and John's head snapped back up to watch him lick his lips. "Fuck." He said again, and as Sherlock licked over his wound over and over,healing it but leaving the big red mark there, John sighed softly and pet Sherlock like the oversized cat he seemed to be. His trousers were tight again, and why shouldn't they be? Molly just kept staring, dry mouthed and not so dry in other areas.

Sherlock finished laving the wound with his saliva and simply tucked his head in to John's shoulder, his nose pressing in to John's neck, simply inhaling the scent now that he'd fed himself adequately. He'd made sure to stop, that small bit of his brain once again kicking in to tell him not to harm his mate too unduly, so John shouldn't be too weak after this. Sherlock's own trousers were quite tight, and very obvious since they had been tight on him to begin with. Sherlock very slowly comes back to himself. It's like his higher mental faculties had taken a vacation until he'd been properly fed up. Now, everything was kicking back on, one level at a time. Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut tight as he realized what he'd just done - and in front of Molly, for God's sake! Fuck, but this was a horrible turn up, wasn't it? John was going to be livid. And Sherlock deserved it.

John was livid, but it wasn't time for that just yet. Breathing quite heavily himself, John let his fingers play gently in Sherlock's curls. His legs were wobbly and he was feeling woozy, so he leaned back into Sherlock, letting the other man support him. When John spoke, his voice was gentle. "Are you feeling better, Sherlock?" He asked, his own eyes drifted closed to enjoy the sensational, groggy feeling that was currently weighing him down. All of the blood left in him must be in his cock, he thought, not much caring that as he leaned into Sherlock he pressed his erection right into his hip.

Sherlock inhaled deeply one more time before he resigned himself to dealing with this mess he made. "Yes," He whispered, not needing to speak loud since his lips were still quite close to John's ear. "Much better. Ah...I suppose I should be thanking you rather profusely." He licks his lips clean of the last of John's blood, accidentally swiping his skin as he does so. Sherlock leans in a bit, pressing his hip slightly in to John's erection. He firmly keeps his eyes away from looking anywhere near Molly's vicinity. They'll have to deal with that later. He's most decidedly not looking forward to it. Sherlock tried to will his own erection away with sheer bloody minded will power, but he was so aroused at the moment he felt like he'd have better luck setting things on fire with only his mind - something he wasn't ashamed to admit he'd spent a large portion of time trying to do when he was younger and Mycroft was being insufferable. Oh. Thinking of Mycroft certainly helped get rid of it.

After a long moment and a small whimper in response to Sherlock pressing against him, John pulled his "think of all of the gory things you've done as a doctor that you're really terribly sick over ever having to do" trick, and that cleared his mind out quite a bit. Not a pleasant method, but almost always effective nonetheless. He let out a long breath he didn't know he'd been holding. "Thanking me for putting up with your ridiculousness, maybe. At this point thanking me for saving your life would just irk me, honestly." He murmured in response, not stopping petting Sherlock or speaking gently. He hadn't quite finished with calming himself down from this scare, and the best way to calm himself down was to hug close to a lover. "Will you beat yourself up over it more if I tell you not to worry about it, or if I scream at you?" He asked with just a hint of humor in his voice.

Sherlock huffed a little dry chuckle. "Honestly? I don't know. Either way I will be able to taste the guilt for several days, so I would go with whichever you would find to be most effective." Sherlock let his eyes slide closed, wanting to take another little moment to compose himself before John started with whatever way he wanted to scold him, whether it was through kindness or loud explosive yelling. No matter what he chose, Sherlock would feel guilty over it. And not only guilty for hiding this from John, guilt over having such a weak body that he collapsed and had to make John aware of this. He was pulled two different ways. It was most illogical but he couldn't stop. He still didn't want to feed from John, but there seemed to be no option left. This couldn't be allowed to happen again. Though...He'd been so far gone and he still hadn't injured John too much...Perhaps his fears were unfounded.

John took a moment too, and cleared his throat. "Perhaps we should, ah... untangle." He suggested, feeling Molly's eyes burning a hole into his back. As comfortable as he was, he rather thought that Sherlock should be waiting on him hand and foot, and he rather thought that the best way for Sherlock to do that was to let him sit cuddled in the crook of his arm and recover for a bit. "I'll yell at you later." He said, deciding. He wasn't just dismissing it, he meant it, but right this second, Sherlock was still alive, and he'd fed and... Was it strange for John to feel like a mother feeding her babies? It was warm and nurturing and it gave him this crazy euphoria tingling warmly all throughout him...Only it was sexier than that, too.

Sherlock nodded and shifted himself off of the couch so that he was standing but still holding on to John's waist with one arm, basically supporting easily any of the weight John might like to lean against him. He cleared his throat and took a small little breath of air before he brought his eyes up to finally look at Molly. Now that he wasn't weak from hunger he found it much easier to block John's emotions from seeping in and mingling with his. He could focus on Molly without being distracted too much by John's mix of anger and happiness at being useful and the euphoria. "Ahem. Well." He glanced over at John, unsure how to continue. He'd not apologized to anyone other than John in a very long time, after all. "I'm...sorry about...Ah...Scaring you? And...Interrupting." She'd obviously had a male friend over and sent him off. There was evidence all around the flat.

Little did Sherlock know that said male friend knew exactly what Molly and her visitors were doing right this very second. No, they were busy with the aftermath of what had just happened. John leaned fully against Sherlock, his whole body weight, deciding that he could bloody well deal with it. Molly, on the other hand, squeaked when Sherlock looked at her. He was beautiful and dangerous and feral and terrifying but he had a lover like a real lover someone who loved him enough to let him drink from them and carry them around even though they were quite small and save his life and maybe even put up with listening to him talk all the time. And they were aroused, obviously, and she was... Also aroused. "I- Um! She shook her head. "N-n-not at all Sherlock, I, um.... um!"

Sherlock leaned ever so slightly in to John. He was fine by this point, recovering already from his little episode, so he didn't need to lean on anything, but he liked being pressed flush against John. It was...comforting. "Yes. And...Thank you, Molly. Who knows what might have happened if you had not been able to inform John of what was wrong." He really was grateful to her in this moment, more so than he had been before when she'd been abusing her position at the morgue for him. Sherlock shuddered to think of what might have happened if he'd never gotten such immediate and easy access to John's blood. "We should probably go now. John wants to yell at me later, and we've still got a serial killer to catch." He half smiled at the woman as he began half carrying John to the door, his hold explicitly gentle on the other man.

John snorts. "The catching of serial killers is all up to you today- I'm going to have some tea with plenty of sugar and take a rest." And why shouldn't he? Sherlock was a big boy and he could fend for himself. John was upset he was going to miss it, but there were more serial killers in London, after all.  Sherlock's arm was so warm around him he already felt like he was drifting off.  Molly was a gibbering mess. She managed, "Um,.. uh-h yes, no problem! Just, ah... If you ever need me again, c-call! And... And..." She swallowed, steeling herself. "Don't be a stranger! If you're feeding from him now, still come to the mortuary once in a while!"

Sherlock raises an eyebrow at her flustered appearance and tone. He can't blame her, not really, but it is slightly amusing to watch. "Of course. I can't live off of John here, after all. Look at him, he's about to fall asleep just from one time." He gave the man in his arm a little jostle. "I will see you later Molly." And with that he slipped out the door, still half hauling John along with him. Once the door closed he drew him even closer to his body. "Are you certain you're alright, John?" His voice was tenderer than it had been inside Molly's flat.

Molly blinked at him after he left, and then was off for a long, shameless wank of her own. Having a boyfriend was nice, even if he was a little off, but THIS.... Oh, this was what it was all ABOUT!

John frowned at Sherlock's words. "When I asked you that you lied to me. Why should I answer you truthfully?" He was trying to force home what the real topic was, here, that Sherlock hadn't been honest with him. "I TOLD you what my terms were for this relationship, Sherlock, and you've broken them already. How am I supposed to trust you when you blatantly lie to me?"

Sherlock squeezes his eyes closed. Is this it? When John ends the relationship for breaking his terms? He couldn't blame him if he did any more than he could blame Molly for being a flustered mess. He'd stay, most likely, to go on the cases with Sherlock and to experience the adrenaline he needed like air, but he certainly didn't need to be in a relationship with Sherlock. "You can't," He whispered, meaning John couldn't trust him not to lie. He most likely would again if he thought it in John's best interest. All he wanted to do was protect John. That seemed to have backfired in his face.

More than once, in fact! "I told you to be honest with me not because I want to be invasive and know every little thing, but because I don't want you to make idiotic decisions like these! I _want_ you to drink from me, Sherlock. Isn't that my right as your mate? If it's not it should be. Look what happened this time. You fucking starved yourself and nearly died and you're right, if Molly wasn't there I'd have never known what to do. So...This time I mean it. I'm not putting up with you breaking it again, Sherlock. Be. Honest. With. Me."

Sherlock crumples, his shoulders sagging in defeat. "Yes. Fine. I- Yes." He meant it this time. John wasn't leaving him over this. It would be his second chance to do this appropriately, and he wouldn't mess it up. It was indeed John's right as mate to decide if he was up for his partner to bite him, and if John said it was fine, it must be. Sherlock opened his eyes and turned his head so that he was looking John directly in the eye. "I promise, John, to be completely honest with you. Consider me unable to lie to you from this moment on." This wasn't just a promise, it was a vow, and he would not break that, not when he was fully behind it when he made it.

John took a deep breath, and then he shivered it out. Sherlock was serious, really serious. He meant this, and suddenly John had so much confidence in him... He thought that he should know better, since Sherlock is a repeat offender.  John gave a harsh sigh. "Thank you. That's what I need, more than anything." John found Sherlock's hand and laced their fingers together. "It disgusts me to think that I'm going to torture you to make sure I'll be able to stop you if need be, when you're more likely to starve yourself to death than hurt me. Normally that would be a good thing but this time? Sherlock, I WANT you to drink from me! I want to do MY part as YOUR lover."

Sherlock squeezed John's hand tight in his own, holding on to it like an anchor. "I would much rather starve to death than hurt you, John. But...I was entirely out of it just now and...I didn't seem to hurt you." He slid them easily in to the cab he'd just hailed and gave the man their address before continuing in a lowered voice. "I…I didn’t want to burden you even further, John. It was bad enough you'd found yourself wrapped up something that would not be out of place in an insipid tween novel about monsters, I didn't want to burden you with this as well. I can see that was a mistake now." He lifted John's hand that was still in his own and he pressed a gentle kiss to the knuckles. "I am sorry. For worrying you and for lying to you.”

 John took a moment in silence. Sherlock truly was sorry. He might have been sorry only because John had fallen to no harm, but he was still sorry. "You're even less likely to hurt me if you're fully conscious when you feed, you know. And I asked for this, okay Sherlock? I accepted. You don't have to protect me from you. When I said I'd be yours I meant I'd be yours completely. That means every part of you, even the vampire parts." He gave a low chuckle. "It was a pretty astounding choice, so don't sell it short." He watched his hand lifted to Sherlock's lips and felt the soft kiss there. He cleared his throat softly and then said, "Apology accepted." He let their hands drop to rest on Sherlock's leg, and he leaned into him, pressing side to side, and let his head fall to Sherlock's neck, where he softly, lazily kissed up his jaw. "You'll be fully forgiven if you keep your promise."

Sherlock tipped his head back and to the side, presenting John with more access to his jaw and neck. The motion had been half instinctual, half lazy euphoria. Sherlock's body was still running a bit on autopilot, and it was telling him that since he'd just fed, it was his mates turn, even though John couldn't reciprocate. Actually, he scolded his body, even if John had been able to, it would have been sheer stupidity to do it. Usually his body wasn't running this low on blood and could easily give back some of his own, but at the moment he probably would have passed out again if another vampire had fed from him. Ignorant instincts, he thought. "I will. I meant what I said this time, John, and I will not go back on it." Sherlock twisted their hands over so that John's wrist was pointing up. Sherlock stroked his thumb over the pulse he could feel there.

John took the offered space and cuddled right in, more than ready to just fall asleep there. And he would have, if he didn't know that Baker Street was going to come up any minute. Instead he just let his nose rest there and his breath come in long, even pulls. Sherlock smelled nice, and he was actually warmer now than he had been when John had carried him. John resolved never to let Sherlock know he'd carried him that way, actually. "I believe you." He said in response, eyes fluttering closed. John shivered as Sherlock's thumb stroked up and ran directly over where he'd fed from not long before.

Sherlock smiled softly, ridiculously pleased at the thought of getting a second chance. He continued to stroke over John's arm and wrist until they'd pulled up right outside Baker Street. He jumped out first and offered a hand to help John out. Normally he wouldn't have done anything like that, not since John's psychosomatic limp was taken care of, but Sherlock had just drained him extensively and helping him out of the car was really the least he could do. He didn't drop the hand as they made their way up to the door. Public displays of affection had never, ever been his thing, and he generally felt like gagging when he came across lovey-dovey couples, but there was something about feeling the warmth in his palm and being able to feel John's pulse so easily that made him forget all his normal issues with PDA's. And in the scheme of things, this wasn't that affectionate, anyway. Couples held hands all the time while they were out, right? In any case, unless John said to stop or unless they were working, Sherlock wouldn't mind holding John's hand all the time.

John didn't have any aversion to this, no. Not at all, actually. He didn't have a problem with most PDA, though he wasn't exactly going to push Sherlock into anything. Right now the warm weight of his hand was warm and comforting, a good mobile replacement for the cuddle John would have demanded from Sherlock if he wasn't sure that the man was about to jet right out of the flat as soon as he was sure John was settled in, to chase a serial killer. It wasn't like John was going to keep him from his work, no matter how upset he was or how clingy he felt. John felt a little guilty actually that Sherlock might be inclined to put him first, before his work.

By this point, Sherlock would in fact put John before his work if it was important enough. He liked what he did, the thrill of the chase was fantastic, and it was the only thing to challenge his brain, but no matter what, his mate came first. He'd never thought that would happen for him, but the bond was a very serious thing to vampires and if John seriously needed him he would drop whatever case he was on to make it to him. Speaking of..."Do you need anything?" He asked once they'd made it up and stairs and in to their flat. "You're most likely very tired, but is there anything you'd like before you sleep?" It might surprise some people, but Sherlock Holmes did actually know how to be attentive. He never exercised it because, really, what was the point? The majority of the world could fuck off for all he cared. But John was not the rest of the world.

John hummed, and then whirled on him and grabbed the lapels of Sherlock's great coat and tugged him down in for a snog. It was really good, actually, a kiss not meant to spark passion, but still plenty good all the same. Sherlock's mouth was still salty and metallic with the taste of John's life.  When he was done, he stepped back. "That's all. I'm glad you didn't die." Then John stepped away with a smile and made a shooing gesture with his hands. "Now get going, you have a serial killer to catch, don't you? Hop to it."

Sherlock was a bit dazed, actually, from being completely caught off guard by the snog. It was a rather lovely snog. He blinked once, twice, and then a slow smile curved his lips up. "Indeed I do." He stepped forward to press a soft kiss to John's forehead before he backed out of the flat again. "Goodnight, John, in case you are asleep when I return." And then he was gone, back down the stairs and hailing yet another cab to take him back to  the area where they'd found the body. After that it didn't take him long to find the suitcase, only five minutes, really. He despised tossing around in kips, but he'd been submerged in worse things before. He squatted to the ground while he rifled through the horrendous pink suitcase. Honestly, who bought things in this shade and actually used them?


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And thus we move on to the climax of A Study in Pink. It doesn't end quite how you think it might...

John settled in for a nice nap after Sherlock left, kipping on the sofa because it was right there and it was nice and central and this whole part of the flat smelled like Sherlock. His sleep was blessedly dreamless, and when he awoke a few hours later he was feeling much better, with a very sugary cup of tea. He got out his laptop and sent off an email to Sherlock, knowing he'd get it on his phone. _Had a good nap. :) How is the case? Nab any serial killers yet? JW_

Sherlock fished the phone out of his coat pocket, where he'd put in after he had sent a text to the phone he'd discovered was missing from the dead lady's suitcase.

_Not yet. Closer than I was before. He has her phone. - SH_

 He's about to shove it back in his pocket when it occurs to him that that might sound a bit impersonal. He's never had to bother with this before.

_You should eat something. – SH_

 It’s the best he can do. Just as he's putting the phone away, it rings. He answers without looking, assuming it's John. The voice on the other end is most decidedly not John. "Good evenin', Mister Holmes. I've been told y'er lookin' for me. I can make it easy for you. I know y'er curious. You want to know how I do it. I'll tell you. I'll be waiting." The call is canceled before he can get a word in, and a moment later there's a text with an address and the message "Come alone or you'll never find out how I do it." The thrill of the hunt is suddenly thick around him. Well. This has taken an interesting turn. _Got him_ , he sends to John before he tosses the suitcase back in the bin and heads for the road. He's got a meeting to attend.

John smiled when he immediately got a message back. Just having Sherlock reply to him was more personal than he thought he'd be getting, and the second text, a little bit of concern or caring or, well, anything from Sherlock was...Sweet. He was typing his response when he got the third.  He wished Sherlock well on this case, and even though it was dumb, he was a little worried for Sherlock's safety.

 _Look who's talking!! YOU eat something. :)_ John really did like smiley faces. _Good luck, try not to get killed. JW <3_

Sherlock paused on his way to getting in the cab. Less than three? What in the world did that mean? He shook his head and finished getting in, deciding to ask. He had nothing else to do for the ride over to what he knew to be the address of a college. _< 3? What is that supposed to mean? And I believe I just did eat something._ He smirks down at the phone in his hand. The college isn't far, and it isn't long before he's looking up at the mostly dark building. There's a man leaning against another taxi cab...Oh! Stupid! Yes, of course, it makes sense now. No one thinks of their cabbies. He hadn't even glanced at the one driving him now. That's rather clever, he admired in a sort of macabre way. _Killer is a cabbie. Makes sense now. Still do not know how he gets them to kill themselves,_ he texts to John before he jumps out of the car.

John blinked as he was once more answered immediately. Sherlock sure did keep on top of these things, didn't he? Most normal people took a while to notice when they got a text or an email.

 _How can you not know what <3 is? Turn it on its end, it's a heart._ John's eyes widened as he read Sherlock's deduction. _Brilliant!! Someone would expect the Spanish Inquisition before they expected their cabbie to be a murderer. How'd you figure that out?_ He liked this, this being there by extension, but he hoped that he would not have to spend too much time like this. He would have rather been out there on the front lines with Sherlock.

Sherlock feels John's reply vibrate in his pocket, but he's not able to pull it out and read. He's far too busy at the moment being fascinated by everything he sees in this unassuming man who has killed four people. "Shall we?" He motions towards the college, already walking up the steps. Sherlock couldn't have walked away by this point even if he wanted to. "How do you do it? How do you get them to kill themselves?" He asked intently.

"Why, Mister Holmes, I'm not going to just tell you. I'm going to show you." He lead them in to a half lit room and took a seat, not waiting on Sherlock to sit before he set out two bottles, each filled with one identical pill. Sherlock watched, rapt, as the cabbie explained the rules. "And why should they decide? Why not just walk away?" The cabbie smirks and pulls a gun from somewhere below the table, aiming it straight at Sherlock's head. "Like this. But I don't need that with you, do I? No, you're curious, now. Which one, Mister Holmes? Shall we see who's the better genius? Are you really as smart as you think you are?" His words are carefully crafted to tempt him in the worst way.

John waited merrily for Sherlock's reply. For five minutes. That was enough to get him out of his mind with worry. Sherlock answered immediately, and that was so very, very like him. Why wouldn't he respond? There could only be something wrong. John swore, wishing that he could locate Sherlock the way Sherlock could locate him. Then John remembered the pink lady's phone, which was still either with the cabbie, or with Sherlock. If he found it, he found them. John, secretly an internet savant, logged on to the most popular phone tracking website, plugged in her email address, which has been in an information report given to them by the Yard, and in a fit of his own brilliance, her password, Rachel. Once given the location, John grabbed a few pieces of bread from the breadbox and the gorgeous gun from his bedroom, and ran out into the night after his mad lover.

Sherlock eyed the bottles. He'd gotten the information he needed. He'd even gotten a confession. He could walk away right now - that gun was obviously fake. It might fool a few regular civilians, but it certainly wouldn't fool him. But there were still questions he wanted the answers to, just for him. "Why? You've told me how. You've not said why." Sherlock sat silent, listening as the man talked about his 'sponsor'. Another mystery, something for him to focus on once this was over. Who would sponsor someone for murder? And why did he need sponsored- Ah. The children. "You're dying." He said. It wasn't a question. The man didn't seem surprised that Sherlock knew. He tapped his head. "Aneurysm."

While John got his own, non-serial murderer powered cab, he fidgeted in the back seat and sent Sherlock another message. Are you in danger? On my way, he typed, praying that Sherlock would answer him. John had no idea what could be up, but he had this feeling in the pit of his stomach that there was danger afoot, and not the good kind. The kill his lover kind. John swore, willing his cab to speed up so he could get where he needed to be before Sherlock became a victim of the cabbie who hadn't failed yet.

Sherlock stands up suddenly, refastening his coat. "Well. This has been fun, but I'm afraid I must be turning you in to the police now. Murder is generally frowned upon, even if you're doing it for your children." The man starts to lift the gun but Sherlock scoffs. "Please. It's obviously fake. You have no way of keeping me here."

The man watched Sherlock, eyes intent. "Which one would you have chosen, then? Just so I can know if I'd had you." Sherlock is still for a moment, then he walks around the table, snatching the bottle up closest to the cabbie. "Ahh," The man said. "Really? Interesting." He picked up the other bottle, popped the top, and shook the pill a bit. "Well? If you're so certain you're right...Why don't we? No risk to you, right? You are a proper genius, after all..."

Sherlock popped the cap to examine the pill intently, raising it to the light between his thumb and forefinger.

The cab finally stopped and John ran, keeping the presence of mind to wait until he was in the building to get out his gun. He would be sure to have it read as soon as possible, so that the serial killer could be taken down at a moment's notice. All John could do was run and search and pray. He could also pointedly not think about a life without Sherlock, now that he'd had him. He didn't think he'd be able to stand it, didn't think he'd be able to go on living now that he'd had a taste. No, Sherlock had given him life again, but John wasn't yet tethered to it.

“Well?" The cabbie prodded, lifting the pill to his own lips. "Are you right? Are you wrong? You'll never know if you don't take the pill, Mister Holmes." Sherlock's hand is rock steady as he lowers it to set the pill against his mouth, and it makes him think of John, who's at his most solid when there is danger and the threat of violence. He thinks of what would happen if he'd been wrong and the pill was poisoned. His body would most likely be able to fight it off, unlike a human one. He'd be weak, and the cabbie would most likely escape while Sherlock is seemingly dying. But his curiosity is too great. He weighs the risk with the knowledge gained and opens his mouth.

John slammed a shoulder in to the door, startling the cabbie as he barreled in to the room, and he took in the whole scene in a split second, gun raised. All he knew in that moment was that Sherlock could not, could NOT swallow that deadly pill. What the hell did he think he was doing? Sherlock needed to drop it, needed to be stopped. "Freeze, Sherlock!" He said, the power of absolute authority in his voice. It was the same tone of command he’d used in the military. He didn't know what that word would do to Sherlock, and he didn't know that it would be even less painful to just take the pill. He also didn't know he'd be incapacitating his lover in front of a dangerous killer, but John's gun was aimed straight at his chest anyway.

Sherlock froze, just as he was commanded, utterly and completely, but not from the authority in John's body. Pain raced through his limbs like electricity, lighting every nerve ending on fire and setting everything inside him ablaze. If he'd been able to he would have screamed, would have shrieked until he'd woken up half of London, but his muscles locked tight, a subtle trembling to them showing just how tight they were tensed. White hot needles prickled everywhere, stabbed in deep. It was too much, of everything, and his legs buckled despite being locked like a steel cable and Sherlock fell backwards, hitting the ground and the wall behind him. His eyes were wide and the pain in them was obvious, to John, to the cabbie across from him. If he'd have been able to think of anything, he might have been slightly pleased that they knew this worked now, but he was a bit preoccupied by feeling like he's being burnt at the stake and stabbed at the same time.

John took a painfully long moment to realize what was happening. The moment he finally did, he winced at the sympathetic pain he felt all through him, especially in his shoulder where the nerves were very definitely dead. He turned immediately from Sherlock and to the cabbie. "On the ground. Hands behind your head, and I swear to god DON'T fucking move because you DON'T want me on your bad side at a time like this." He waited for the cabbie to comply, trying to ignore Sherlock's gasps for breath.

Sherlock slumped against the wall, his breathing shallow and erratic. The pain stopped, but now he ached abominably. Jesus Christ, he thought. He hoped to all the gods that might be that he never attacked John, because he never wanted to go through this ever again. Sherlock looked up at John, and if he hadn't been barely functioning right now, he might have been interested at how forceful John was being. "John," He gasped out, voice rough like he'd not used it in years. His eyes flicked to the cabbie, then settled back on John.

Sherlock looked bloody terrible. Holding his gun still pointed at the cabbie, John walked around Sherlock and then crouched down. He reached forward with his free hand to gently caress his face. "I'm sorry, darling, that was unintentional." He said, keeping his attention split between the two men in the room. His face held nothing but remorse. "Just try and relax, alright? I've got it from here. How long do you think you'll need to get back on your feet again? I want to know before I call the Yard to get the cabbie taken away." His fingers folded through Sherlock's hair, and John wanted to do so much more, wanted to hold him and apologize and kiss him and rub out his sore muscles, but right now John was multitasking.

Sherlock cleared his throat and attempted to nod his head, but his body shouted nope, no, not happening, and he fell back in to absolute stillness. "Call them," He said in a hoarse voice. "I'll be fine enough to fake it by the time they get here." His eyes narrowed in on the very confused looking cabbie. Obviously he was confused - at first he had thought Sherlock collapsed because of the pill, but now he had no bloody idea what was going on, and there was suddenly a man with a gun. Sherlock smirked slightly at his confusion.

John nodded and reached into his pocket to give them a call, regretful that he had to take his hand away from Sherlock, who could no doubt use all of the physical comfort he could get. He was more than ready to put the phone down when the conversation was done, so he could return to softly stroking Sherlock's face. "You better be ready to fake it, they're rather quick." He said, and his voice was still gentle, still meant to make Sherlock know that everything was okay. "Least we know it works, huh? Hopefully we'll never have to do this again. And hopefully we can sneak away from Lestrade before they ask us too many questions, and get you home."

Sherlock chuckles softly, but that hurts, so he stops. He's going to have to deal with the fact that everything is going to hurt for a little while. "Lestrade, not asking many questions? We could only be so lucky, John. If he brings Anderson with him I don't think I have the willpower at the moment to not punch him. It probably is for the best we sneak out. But we can't leave him." He gently uses his chin to gesture at the cabbie. "Help me up, will you?" He asks, lifting one stinging arm.

"Of course." John says, and pulls Sherlock's arm up around his shoulders, being as careful as possible and giving him a lift up. He let Sherlock lean into him all of the way, being a support beam if necessary. "Steady, there. Wouldn’t want you to fall. It'd be embarrassing." He leaned over and gave Sherlock a soft, quick kick on the mouth, and completely ignored the cabbie's look of distaste. "So, darling, what's the plan?" He asked, voice warm and lovely and almost as though Sherlock had the sniffles and they were planning an outing around that.

Sherlock turned his head slowly to look at John. "You're ridiculous, I hope you know." He says, but his voice is as warm as he can possibly make it when there is another person in the room - which means his voice is still cold, but instead of icy shards it's a soft snow. "The plan, if it can be called that, is we stand around until Lestrade and his lapdogs bust in here and takes care of the man on the floor. I explain to them how we got here, which I will try to do without calling them all idiots - I'm expecting to fail that bit - and we head home. The only complication is...well...that." He gestured to John's gun. "Without it we have no way to explain how we subdued the man. Also, he'd just tell them we had it. With it, one of us is bound to be in an awful lot of trouble." Sherlock frowns.

John harrumphs. "Says the man who almost just poisoned himself!" John said, almost angrily. " _You_ , Sherlock Holmes, are the _definition_ of ridiculous!!" He let his head fall down to Sherlock's shoulder, keeping the cabbie in the corner of his eye. "What did I TELL you about getting yourself killed!?" John had thought, had really thought for a moment that- Well, he'd been wrong. John let the gears in his head turn for something else. There were options. John didn't like them, but they were explainable. "We make him take his own poison. Say that you just won."

Sherlock hums in response. Ruthless. Logical. A large part of him is rather impressed and pleased at John's plan. That's probably not healthy, is it? "That would be for the best," He says, letting his appreciation shine through his eyes. He's still leaning heavily on John, but he's recovered enough that he'd be able to stand alone now. He doesn't move.

"This is insane! You can't kill me-" The cabbie protests, overhearing them.

"Shut up," Sherlock cuts him off, suddenly very lethal looking, predatory, despite still leaning on John. The man shuts up.

John swallowed. "We haven't got time to give him one and wait and see if it works. He'll have to take both." John was sorry that Sherlock would never know if he'd won. He knew how much that would matter to Sherlock, the crazy man.  All John knew was that a man would be dying, and death was regrettable, but... He was a bad man and this was a just end. John just wanted this all over with and Sherlock home, where he was warm and safe and John could coo over him and tell him he was an idiot all at once. John swallowed. "I'll hold him down for you, if you'll do the honors." John said.

Honors. Do the honors. Goodness, but where did he find this man? Sherlock didn't believe in the idea of 'perfection', but John was ridiculously close to it in Sherlock's eyes. And this was all very disgusting, to be thinking these things before they are about to kill a man together, but Sherlock has never been accused of being normal or even wholly sane. Instead of spouting off some rather cheesy line to John, he nods and steps forward, every muscle screaming in protest. He bends to pick up the pills that landed on the floor with John's entrance and he nearly falls over, but through sheer willpower he forces himself up and towards the cabbie. "You're going to die. That is just the way it is. If you move, John will shoot you. We will make up some story, say it was a relative of one of your victims, it doesn't matter. So, essentially, you can do this the hard way or the easy way." His voice is bland, as if he's not discussing murder with the future victim.

John knew that, for all Sherlock's talking, the easier way for the cabbie was to get shot. John pressed the man in to the ground, incapacitating him, not giving him the choice to try and fight back, try and get out of the situation he couldn't get out of. John swallowed. "Believe it or not I am sorry we have to do this." He said with a sincere frown. John didn't like killing. He'd done too much of it already. "But there are bigger things at work here than your life. Bigger things at work than my gun, even. So...goodnight." John thought the cabbie deserved an explanation.

Sherlock kneels, the motion slow and contained instead of his usual fast, sharp movements. He palms the pills in to his right hand and grabs the cabbies jaw with his other. The man thrashes, but he trusts John to keep him still. "Goodnight," He echoes John. Sherlock covers his mouth, keeping it open with the one hand. The other that had pried open the man's jaw pinches his nose. It takes only a few moments for the man to run out of air. He chokes in a breath, inadvertently swallowing the pills. They stand there, waiting for the poison to kick in. It's fast. As soon as the man starts shaking Sherlock steps back.

As does John, instead tucking his gun into his waistband and getting back to Sherlock, wrapping his arms around Sherlock's middle and burying his face in his sweaty collar and breathing deep. "How many times do I have to save you in one day, huh?" he asked, his pulse loud and hammering and his breathing quick as he tried to calm himself down. He knew that the job was dangerous and he was prepared for that. What he wasn't prepared for was Sherlock killing himself. "You aren't actually suicidal, are you? Because that would be a good thing to know." John was joking, but he sure as hell hoped that Sherlock would never try to off himself again.

"My hero," Sherlock says, voice dry. He slides a hand up John's back, up his neck, until he can card his hands through John's hair. He strokes gently, just letting John's warmth seep in to him. He presses a light kiss to the top of his head. "It wouldn't have killed me, John. I would have lived. Might have been a bit sick afterwards, and weak, but I would have been fine." He whispers. He can feel John's heart slamming against his own chest.

John's first reaction was to be extremely upset. He'd hurt Sherlock that badly for a stomach bug? He began to tremble slightly. Sherlock in that much pain had been a terrible sight. He hated it, hated doing that, hoped he'd never ever have to do it again. Could hardly bear the thought of doing it again because it was... it was torture. Then he thought of what it would have meant if he had been sick, but still had survived. That would be quite difficult to explain, and not something that he didn't feel they could have explained even if they tried. "Well, you lived anyway." He said so softly it might have been a whisper.

Sherlock is basically petting John now, attempting to give comfort even though he's never had any practice at it. He wants to ease John's trembling somehow, though. "Yes. I'm alive. And so are you, so the evening has turned out quite well, I have to say. Only one dead body to deal with. For me, that's a win." He jokes lightly. Sherlock curls his other arm tightly around John's waist. His face is completely soft and open. There's no public for him to hide from at the moment, unless you count the man on the floor and...Well. He doesn't count. He won’t be around to tell anyone of what he sees.

John couldn't help it. Sherlock was the one who might as well have just been electrocuted without any of the benefit of being numb afterwards, and yet he was the one comforting John. His words were quite true, though. They were both alive. And that meant celebrating. He untangled his arms and reached up and kissed Sherlock deeply on the mouth, trying to work out all of the pain he'd felt when he'd thought about Sherlock being gone. He wanted to tell Sherlock so, but right now he had to express with lips and tongue and the barest hint of teeth. John didn't notice when the door opened, and half the police force stepped in, took a look at the two men and then immediately averted their eyes to the seizing man on the ground. The EMTs rushed forward while everyone pointedly didn't stare at their sociopathic detective getting one of the most passionate snogs they'd ever seen.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FLUFF. LOTS OF FLUFF. Doctor Watson is a man used to taking care of the hurt and injured, after all. Boy, what I wouldn't give to be Sherlock in this chapter...I'd even take the pain he just went through *coughs* Also, this took ages to put together, bloody hell x.x

Sherlock really should have heard all of those people on the stairs, but he'd been distracted by the wonderful man snogging him within an inch of his life, but there was no way he'd miss the door opening and the sudden scent of that many people. He jerked away, right out of John's arms, his face flushed red at being caught in so intimate a position. Damn. Now it would be slightly harder to lord his superiority over all them when they'd seen him acting so...Human. Sherlock pointedly avoided looking at Lestrade, Sally and Anderson. They would be the worst. He cleared his throat and decided to pretend he hadn't just been involved in a rather intense snog. "About time! You're too late. He swallowed his own pills before we could stop him. I didn't even find out if I'd chosen the correct one," He says, and that last bit isn't faked like the first. He's going to be bitter over that for a while.

Unlike Sally's very obvious look of disgust, Lestrade managed to keep a professional, if somewhat awkward face through the whole ordeal. None of them had been expecting it, not in the slightest. They'd hardly expected Sherlock to have a friend, let alone a lover, let alone someone who would get so very close to him, holding him tight like he is precious, kissing him as if their lives depended on it. It was kind of a crazy thought, actually. Instead of commenting, Lestrade just gestured to Anderson to take a look at the body and for Sally to start collecting fingerprints from the bottles and the cabbie's fake gun.  John for one was actually rather disappointed that Sherlock jumped away from him, but he could understand why, and the red color to his face was absolutely endearing. He cleared his throat. "'S’cuse me, Detective Inspector..." He began when he saw Lestrade get out his notebook for questioning. "Can we catch up with you tomorrow morning? Sherlock hasn't eaten in over twelve hours and he's been running around the city like a mad man. You know you can trust us to show up- can it wait?" Lestrade frowned, considering. The two of them probably wanted some alone time, and seeing as they were still looking slightly shaky and out of sorts, they probably could use the rest. "Bright and early, got it?" He said with a frown. "And just this once."

Sherlock nodded at Lestrade, his face finally starting to cool off. "Of course. We'll be there." And that would have been that, really, if not for the fact that Anderson never knew when to keep his mouth shut.

"Is he paying you? That's the only explanation, right?" He questioned in John's direction, voice low, but unfortunately for him Sherlock had quite a good set of ears. Sherlock whirled around to look at him, momentarily forgetting his aching body. A soft pained noise escaped his lips and he swayed dangerously.

John grabbed his shoulder to keep him from completely toppling over, keeping him upright with strong arms. "It seems like he saves your arses repeatedly. That's close enough, isn't it?" He wanted to be nice to Anderson, but the feud between him and Sherlock really was quite fiery, and he felt obligated to support his mate in all things such as this. "Anyway, we're off." He purposefully did not point out that Sherlock was obviously unsteady on his feet and in need of some rest, but he did tug Sherlock away from the yard and towards the door, keeping him close and safe from any other sharp words the members of the Yard might fling at him.

Sherlock hated this, hated having to rely on someone to move properly, but he really should have known better than to move so suddenly like that. He tried to hold as much weight as he could. Sherlock ignored the looks of surprise on everyone's faces. First they see him in an intimate moment, and then they catch him seemingly with an injury of some sort. If any of them mentioned this later he didn't think he'd be responsible for his actions. Sherlock's face burned again. "Thank you," He muttered to John once they were out of the room and heading down the stairs in a slow process. He meant for more than just helping him move along.

John was so charmed by the rare blush on fair cheeks that he leaned up on his tiptoes to kiss the blush into even greater existence. "My pleasure." He said with a grin. He was a caregiver after all. It was nice to have someone to care for besides his drunken, resentful sister. He knew that Sherlock appreciated it, after all, his thanks weren't fake. "Now let's get you the hell out of here before you topple over." He drew Sherlock close enough to him to keep the man remaining standing and hailed a cab at the same time, proving how very used to this he was.

Sherlock felt his face heat even more at the kiss and he fought against the urge to say something so sappy he'd have to cut off his tongue later. Instead he said, "You are lucky you did not do that where anyone could see." He'd meant for it to come out as a warning, but somehow the words twisted and took on a fond lilt. Obviously being this out of it with pain was not good for him. Sherlock very slowly lifted an arm around John's shoulders and used it to lean a bit more on him. He'd be worried about causing them to fall over, but he knew John was stronger than he looked. Sherlock blamed all those comfortable looking jumpers John owned on the fact that everyone always thought John was fluffy instead of solid. Sherlock paused. His thoughts weren't even making sense to him right now. That was worrying.

John was a lot stronger than he looked, but Sherlock weighed much more than him, what with his height. Just because John was solid didn't mean he wasn't small.  He helped Sherlock into the millionth cab they'd been in in the last few days, glad to finally get Sherlock sitting again. His hand found Sherlock's free one and began to rub circles in Sherlock's wrist, slowly working up his arm. "So, I'm going to have to work my magic and cure you, aren't I?" He sighed softly. "I'm going to run you a bath and rub down every sore muscle you have." He said, matter of fact.

Sherlock made a pleased noise in the back of his throat at the thought, pleased but sounding vaguely aroused - he had just walked away from a fantastic snog, he thought he could be excused - but he disagreed. "John, you should still be resting. I fed from you only several hours ago. I will heal shortly. Though I must ask that you only use that again in extreme, extreme circumstances. It was...A lot more than I had been expecting." He cleared his throat, instinct to hide his weakness being forcefully overridden.

John only continued on Sherlock's arm, moving slowly up his forearm, fingers working little circles into his flesh, forcing the muscles there to unclench themselves. "The bath and the rubdown are non-negotiable. If I'm well enough to run through London after you, I'm well enough to give you a massage." Then he’d get some food in him and be even less woozy. At the rest, John nodded. "You know I won't use it again unless I need to. Though..." He gave a little frown. "You said vampires usually agree on a term." He said softly. "I guess we already have ours, but I thought I'd run it by you. Freeze?" He said it carefully without any urgency or intention to hurt Sherlock, and prayed that it wouldn't hurt him.

Sherlock flinched, of course, not because it hurt, but because of the threat of it. He aborted the motion almost immediately, but he'd already jerked in John's grip before his brain caught up enough to stop himself. Damn it all. The red was going to be stained in to his cheeks by the end of this night. It was still incredibly hard to not hide his weakness in front of someone, even if that someone was wonderful, lovely John, and this was not helping at all. He cleared his throat. "Yes. Well. That- that is fine. Whatever works is...is fine." Honestly, he wanted to go home, tuck John back in to where he'd had a nap, take a very, very long warm shower and then pass out for several hours. Possibly curled up around John. That sounded like heaven right now, in fact.

John understood Sherlock's need to hide any flaw in his impenetrable shield of scary smart man, but he didn't mind it when Sherlock failed. He leaned in, slowly so as to not spook him, and gave him another kiss on the cheek. "I promise. Not unless I need to. You can trust me." By then they were back at Baker Street, and John offered Sherlock a hand as they stepped out of the cab. "Come on, I'll get some food in me quick and then I'll treat you to the full spa package, huh?"

"I've told you, there's no need, John. Really. Please, take care of yourself and do not worry about me. I've lasted this long, you know." His lips tick up in to a little smile but it does not last. He accepted the hand and then promptly laced their fingers together. By this point Sherlock really and truly did not care what anyone thought if they saw two grown men holding hands in public. They could burn, for all he minded. "I trust you inexplicably, John, I feel you should know that already." Sherlock's brain was so fuzzy from earlier he wasn't even sure if that had come out sounding sappy or cheesy or whatever else he might fear being when he was running at a hundred percent.

John gave a slow smile. "Good. We'll need that at some point, I'm sure. Plus it's just good to know." John, on the other hand, wasn't taking any of this bullshit from Sherlock. "What exactly do you think of me, Sherlock Holmes? I've already told you, I didn't agree to being your lover so that I could ignore you. Taking care of you is my JOB. And it's one I take very seriously." He went with Sherlock, slow back up the stairs, until they were in the flat once more.

Sherlock unlaced their hands so that he could peel his gloves from his hands very gently and then drop them to the floor. His coat followed soon after, being slid off of his body like it was a delicate instrument and if he went too fast the results would be bollocksed up. His insides warmed at John's words, despite his best efforts to make them act like normal. "If you continue saying 'lover' so casually I will not be held responsible for my actions, Watson." He warned, and it might have been at least a bit threatening if not for the fact that they both knew he couldn't do anything right now, let alone throw John down and fucking him senseless like hearing that word on John's lips made him want to.

John turned his head and gave Sherlock a grin. "Bite me." He said, enjoying the irony of the command. Sherlock really would bite him, already had, which was why the taunt was fully enjoyable. He took off his own coat and shoes and stepped into the kitchen to make himself a sandwich quick, to keep his blood sugar up.  He was eating it when he re-entered the room, "Come on, Sherlock, into the loo. I've brought bath salts and everything." Nothing used to soothe his sore leg like a long bath. John was an expert at them.

Sherlock was shocked to hear a barked out laugh exit his lips at John's joke. It was certainly never the type of thing he jokes about - for one, who would he joke with? - and it shocked him that John could be so carefree about this. It still shocked him, actually, that he hadn't gone screaming in to the night, just a little. "Bath salts? My, my. You were not kidding. Very fancy, Mr. Watson. Is this your plan to woo me? Bath salts and a rub down? I'm more expensive than that, surely you must now." But he made his way slowly towards the loo, fingers coming up to unbutton his shirt. He made it in and had the shirt puddled to the ground, but his fingers fumbled with the button on his trousers. His hands were shaking. "Damn," He muttered under his breath.

John nodded, and then rolled his eyes. "I'm almost certain you don't need to be wood." He said flatly. "Are you kidding? All I needed was a charming smile and a nice smell and you were all over me." He showed Sherlock a charming smile now, while he ducked into the bathroom cabinet for his bath supplies. It wasn't a moment before John saw Sherlock's difficulty and heard his murmured curse. He set down the bubble bath and the bath salts and stepped up to Sherlock, reaching down for the button and undoing it with ease, gently pushing Sherlock's long, trembling fingers away. "No problem." He said with a little smile, willing Sherlock not to be embarrassed by his difficulty.

Sherlock clenches his hands in to fists, tight enough that the shaking stops. "The smile and the smell were just to get me interested, weren’t they? You were luring me in with that, and now I'm trapped by everything else. It's a conspiracy." He looked down the end of his nose at John because, really, despite the fact that they were basically lovers now and Sherlock at least was certain he was most likely in love with the other man, and there'd been tender words and all that lark, this was the most intimate he'd felt with another person in...well…ages...and he'd like to cover that up. Sex was sex and words were words, but John was about to rub the soreness and aches out of his muscles, and that wasn't simply something you did for someone unless you cared...He knew, logically, that John cared, but this just reinforced it, and Sherlock was possibly panicking a bit. First the display of weakness and now this. Lovely, he scolded himself.

John wasn't a mind reader, but he was human, and he had an innate sense of people the way most humans did, and he knew that Sherlock was very, very nervous. "Trust me, Sherlock." John said with soft humor in his voice as he leaned over to run the bath. "The only time I've tried to woo you was when I asked you out to dinner." He turned his head to look back up at him. "You didn't even think of it as a date, did you?" He snorted. Sherlock could be an idiot sometimes.  John's expression became expectant. He was clearly waiting for Sherlock to finish getting in the buff. "Come on, then." He said, standing up straight again. He got slightly distracted by Sherlock's chest then. It was a very nice chest. It was all pale, taut planes of muscle, as if he were carved of marble by men who lovingly devoted their lives to the art, and he was their magnum opus.

Sherlock tipped his head slightly to the side. "No, not really. I wasn't aware that that was what it was. In case you haven't noticed, John, I do not have the most skill in reading people. I'm afraid Mycroft got that end of the Holmes family intelligence." Sherlock looked down at his trousers and very slowly inched out of them, his calves and thighs twitching in protest. Once they were off he toed out of his socks and looked up at John. He would have liked it if he weren't the only nude one in the room, but that was only because he enjoyed looking at John's body. It was all tanned and lovely...But he perhaps shouldn't be thinking of that when he was standing nude and any signs of arousal would be clearly seen.

It wasn't as if John would mind that Sherlock got aroused. Hardly. As it was, John revealed a little of his skin by rolling up the sleeves of his shirt (it was the red one, and it really was not a good color on John, but how was he supposed to know that?) and reached a hand in the raising water level. "You should test it to see if it's warm enough for you." He said, pouring in the bath soaps. The room filled with the smell of hazelnut. "And then get in. A long soak will do you good, I mean it. It worked wonders when my leg seized up."

Sherlock sighed, accepting finally that this was actually going to happen. John was so stubborn. Of course it was going to happen. He slipped past the other man and eased his body down in to the water. It actually felt nice. Very, very nice on his battered body. A soft little moan whispered out of his lips as he sank fully back in the tub, stretching his considerably long legs out in front of him.

Luckily, it was a big tub, and it just barely fit him. John sat down at the side of it, and leaned forward to push a curl out of Sherlock's eyes. "That feel good, then?" He asked soothingly, just keeping Sherlock company. H didn't talk besides that, preferring to keep it serene for Sherlock, so he could just lay back and try and enjoy this. He deserved it, after all. John and his bare feet and his bare forearms, and his expression bare too because there wasn't a mask on it trying to hide his pure unadulterated affection.

Sherlock made a grumbling noise in his chest in reply, but it was a pleased sound. The warmth seemed to seep in to his muscles and sooth, relax, loosen him up. He rolled his head from side to side a bit and opened eyes that had fallen shut sometime. Sherlock looks up and John and smiles, and for once he makes no attempt to hide his own expression, which is just as open as John's. For just a moment he thinks of closing it off, not letting John see, but by this point it's nothing compared to John seeing him pass out from starvation or collapse at a word, so he leaves his face open like that, tender and so…well...there really is no other word for it, so loving it is probably a shock to John.

It is, in fact. John remembered that his mother used to look at him like that, as a child, before he'd done anything to disappoint her. Like he was the most precious thing in the entire world. It made John's breath catch, and he felt it again, that need to be loved, really loved- and this time it didn't hurt so much, because John knew: He was. By Sherlock Holmes. "You're a bloody wonder, Sherlock." He said softly, looking amazed now. John leaned forward, wrapping his arms loosely around Sherlock's neck, fingers brushing the water, and he kissed him deeply on the mouth, letting him know just how good it was to have Sherlock love him. Pffft, and Sherlock thought that giving him a rub was too much to offer? As if.

Sherlock was surprised by the kiss, but he didn't mind it. Not at all. He didn't know exactly what John meant when he called him a wonder, though. Sherlock had been called many things over the years but the positive ones always tended to stump him. Sherlock pulled his head away just for a moment to murmur, "If I was not certain it would end with me shrieking in pain, I would pull you in to this bath on top of me." Then he is right back to kissing John, his tongue darting out to swipe along the seam of John's mouth. His head tipped back to allow John to deepen it if he so wished, offering his mouth up for John to do whatever he wanted.

John indulged himself in the kiss for long moments, relishing the drag of tongue against tongue and Sherlock's taste, but before it could get to be too much, he pulled back. "Easy, tiger." He murmured. "The point of this isn't to get off. Do you really think you'd be up for a fucking right now? A good one, the kind that leaves you sore? No." John would be perfectly willing to give Sherlock's cock a rubdown along with the rest of him if Sherlock liked, but this was about making Sherlock feel better, not about sex.

Sherlock muttered something that sounded oddly like, "You started it," and then he realized how childish that sounded. Obviously he was in need of a great deal of sleep before he began acting rational again. "Fair point," He conceded instead. Sherlock slid down in the water a bit, sloshing it around. He inhaled deeply, taking in the different scents from the bath salts. It was soothing. It was nice. If he was not careful he may fall asleep right there in the tub with John watching.

While Sherlock was resting, John reached down into the water for Sherlock's hand, pulling his arm gently up to rest on his thigh while he began to rub through Sherlock's fingers and moved slowly up his arm, over the elbow and up to the shoulder. The attention would leave the muscles sore but relaxed, which was exactly what Sherlock needed right then. After the one arm he reached over and began the second, working from fingertip to shoulder until he'd finished. "Think you could put a leg up?" He asked, making room for one long leg on the side of the tub.

Sherlock's chin had sunk down in the water by the time John spoke. He'd been making soft little noises while John rubbed at his arms, things that teetered on the edge of pleasured and pained. It was wonderful. Did he learn to do this in medical school? His hands were simply fabulous. "I'm sore, John, not disabled." He made a point of saying, just because he couldn't not. He lifted a leg, his body not protesting as much as it had when he'd gotten in the warm water. He put it gently on the edge and stretched it out. Sherlock wondered if he made an odd picture, all slumped with one leg out of the water.

Odd, yes, but gorgeous. Sherlock's dark mop of hair floating above the surface contrasted wonderfully with the alabaster white leg- fuck, it was long- peeking out and resting on clean porcelain. John had to get up and crouch over it to reach, but he did the very same thing, beginning with Sherlock's toes and working up over his arch, heel, ankle, and then further up his leg, paying careful attention. John hadn't learned this in medical school, no, but that didn't mean he hadn't had lots of practice. Unfortunately. "I didn't think you couldn't. I thought you might not want to." Sherlock's small, breathless noises were turning him on a little, but he didn't mind it.

If the noises Sherlock made while John worked on his arm had sounded faintly aroused because of the pleasure, the ones he made when John set to work on his legs and the arch of his feet were downright pornographic. His head tipped back and he groaned and wiggled a bit under John's hands. "Dear God," He said, "This is fantastic. Forget surgery, forget crime, you should obviously be a masseuse. I would have paid you a filthy amount of money to do this." He let his eyes fall closed again.

John spent extra time on Sherlock's calves. They tended to tense up the most. John winced as he imagined it, a charlie horse in every single muscle.  His touches were gentle at first, and then grew tougher, harder, more likely to hurt but also to heal. Then he moved over his knee and up into a solid thigh, which he had to spend extra time on simply because it was so large.  John smiled at the praise.  Would you like to know a secret, Sherlock?" He asked as he worked, hands sliding up the inside of Sherlock's thigh and massaging there too.

"Hmm?" Sherlock supplied on a hum. His eyelids felt like lead, and even though John's hands hurt, it helped at the same time. He really just might fall asleep in this tub if John let him. Physical exhaustion was not something he was used to, but it was hitting heavy and hard tonight. It had cause to, he supposed, but he didn't like it. His mouth cracked open on a wide yawn, exposing white teeth with canines just a tad too sharp to be normal.

 John stopped massaging him for just a second, and instead let his hands dip under water to explore Sherlock's sides, his chest, his collarbones. He just wanted to touch right now, and if Sherlock wouldn't stop him then he wouldn't stop. "I can do this for you all the time." He gave a small snort. "You mistreat your body so damned much, I imagine you need it. What I'm saying is, your mate is a master with his hands, and that spectacular ability is all yours to enjoy." He leaned in and kissed Sherlock again, a deep, slow, languid thing.

Sherlock pressed up in to the kiss, his lips turning up in a smile while he did so. He broke away just for a moment to say in a low voice, "John Watson, I think I love you," and he'd meant it as a joke at first, that John was so good at this and that he would offer to do it for Sherlock any time, but his heart rocketed in to his throat as he realized what he'd said and in what tone of voice - soft, sappy, exactly the way he hated it. Sherlock pushed forward, wanting to ignore this little slip. He was scolding himself for saying something like that, even though it was generally acknowledged information between the two of him, but he'd yet to actually say it, and he didn't want to know if it would ruin the moment.  His hand lifted up out of the water to gently cup John's face, and that got the other man wet, but that didn’t matter.

John felt it too, that squeezing in his chest as Sherlock said those words. It had been unintentional, but that didn't mean it wasn't true. John closed his eyes and let out a shaky breath, letting Sherlock's words run over and through him, making him feel a bit more warmly embraced and a bit more ripped open all at the same time, every time they echoed themselves in his head. John's voice was a little tight when he answered. "Yeah, I know." He said, and Sherlock could see the visible shaking in his shoulders. Bollocks, why was he always Han Solo? He shook his head, and opened his eyes. "You're not so bad yourself." He said, and his hand reached up to cover Sherlock's on his face. He didn't care in the least bit that he was getting wet, either.

Sherlock smiled again and if it was a bit forced, well, they could just ignore that and move on. He angled his head and shifted around so he could press a soft, lingering kiss to John's cheek and then the side of his neck, about the same spot as where he'd bitten him earlier today. Then he slumped back in the water, the liquid up to his nose now and not just his chin. His eyes fell closed again almost immediately, but this time it was so John could not see the emotions in his eyes and so he did not have to see John's.

John saw it, though and he couldn't just let it go. John didn't love Sherlock yet, it had only been a few days. He cared about Sherlock, obviously, liked him a hell of a lot, and all of that, and John was well on his way, from fluttery butterfly feelings to risking his life and offering his blood...But John didn't feel comfortable saying it just yet. John watched Sherlock disappear below the water. John took a deep breath and then quickly took his shirt off before leaning down in and wrapping his arms around Sherlock's shoulders, ducking his head below the water as well, claiming Sherlock's lips and not caring that he tasted bath salts. Sherlock needed to know that he hadn't just been rejected. Sherlock needed to know how very valuable he was. So with this third kiss, John gave Sherlock something to remember, a sweep you off your feet and make your knees weak kind of a kiss. A chick flick kiss. Sherlock deserved this, someone who cared about him like this, the same way John did, and John wanted Sherlock to know that he had it.

Sherlock knew it was irrational, of course John was not in the same place emotionally as he was, he was human and it had only been a few days even though it seemed like Sherlock had known him for years, had been doing this with him for the entirety of his life. But Sherlock was not fully human and while half of him examined this thought logically, half of it saw it as his mate not wanting him. Half sat in the tub, content with John just being by his side, and the other side thought of all the things he could do to woo John in to loving him. He mainly ignored that side. No manipulation. Never. Sherlock's eyes flew open at the sudden kiss and the arms around his shoulders. "Mm-?" was all he got out before he was being treated to what was probably the best kiss of his considerable life. His eyes slid closed again because it was a lot, it was too much, it was far, far too much for him to cope with. He felt that John cared, felt it deep in his bones, and if it was not love, it was close enough for Sherlock. Love was something he'd never expected in the first place. Sherlock wrapped his wet arms around John's torso and lifted himself out of the water as much as he could. He was probably getting John's jeans wet as well but that wasn't the most pressing of matters at the moment.

It didn't matter a bit, in fact. John was getting dripped on left and right and it really didn't make a difference, because Sherlock's response to the kiss made John's chest ache. Not in love, hah. John was close enough to it to doom himself.  He couldn't have ended that kiss even if he wanted to, because not all kisses were like this one. Hardly any of them were. John had only had one or two in his entire life, and while he wasn't exactly promiscuous, he had enough sexual partners to have a fair sampling. His jeans meant even less, because he ached to touch and ached to be as close to Sherlock as possible, and this leaning over the tub thing was for the birds. Holding on to Sherlock's shoulders, he slid off of the side of the tub, lowering himself right into the hot water and Sherlock's lap, legs still hanging over the edge, toes curled.

Sherlock's hands slid down immediately to grip John's hips, surprised at having the other man suddenly in his lap. Not that he was complaining. Of course not. What sane person would complain to be naked in a warm bath with John Watson on top of them? He wanted to say something, and he knew it would probably come out as a gasp or a plea or even an embarrassing little whimper, but Sherlock couldn't bring himself to end the kiss. He was feeling a bit light headed from it, and it wasn't just from the air deprivation.

John was feeling lightheaded too, and so he was the first one to finally break off. His head fell into Sherlock's neck and he breathed deep. Hazelnut. He just took in long breaths for a moment, trying to right himself. It was strange, being wet this way, and he took a moment to examine that before he even thought of speaking. "Don't doubt me, Sherlock." He murmured. "You'll end up being surprised, and next time it might not be nearly so pleasant." John leaned in and kissed Sherlock's neck, nibbling it softly but careful not to break skin. He knew by now what kind of effect that had on Sherlock.

Sherlock's head tilted back of its own accord. "Duly noted," He said dryly, but his voice was soft. One arm wrapped fully around John's waist and the other slid around to trace light patterns in to the skin of John's back. He went from geometrical patterns to words in other languages to writing out musical notes. It didn't matter what he was tracing in to the skin, he just did not want to stop his roaming hand. "You're going to be very uncomfortable when you get out of here." He said in to the comfortable silence. Wet, soggy jeans were not comfy for anyone. At least he'd taken off his shirt. Sherlock's thumb stroked back and forth on John's waist.

John shivered at Sherlock’s fingers roaming, and never in the same pattern twice. John was in no mood to get kicked out, though. "I do not give a SINGLE fuck." John murmured, continuing to kiss and nibble at him and knowing that them being together right now was all that mattered in the world.  John didn't care if he ended up chaffed tomorrow, being in Sherlock's lap was exactly where he wanted to be right now, and he would have no regrets.  His voice was soft and John let the silence hang between them, lovely and comfortable and comforting.

Sherlock tipped his head and rested it on John's collar bone, interrupting John's kissing. He inhaled deeply and made a sound that was most easily defined as a purr. Sherlock's eyes slid closed and the hand at John's back stopped stroking and slid to the water, his breath evening out and deepening.

John was more than happy to do what Sherlock seemed to be doing, finding a comfortable way to be where he was, as close to Sherlock as possible and just holding tight. His arms came around Sherlock's shoulders, John holding tight as though any moment Sherlock would be rippled away from him. He turned his own head to place his cheek against Sherlock's soft, damp curls. Everything was serene and perfect like this, and John closed his eyes and took deep, relaxing breaths and just felt what it was like to be in this man's arms. He didn't speak.

Sherlock's left arm was limp in the water, as lax as the rest of his body, but his right was curled tightly around John, as if he couldn't force himself to let go. Every time he inhaled he got a mixture of hazelnut and John's unique scent and it was fogging his brain up again. The silence and the warmth and just John lulled him in to a light doze. He would snap out of it at any sound that didn't belong and be perfectly coherent, much like he was sure a trained army soldier would do, so it was not a real sleep for him, but it was relaxing and for once his brain was quiet, not shouting and yammering at him with deductions and questions and ideas.

It was nearly ten minutes before John sighed and pushed himself up a little.  "We should get out soon, before we get all pruney." He said, one of the arms that had been fully dedicated to holding Sherlock close now drawing tiny little circles into the back of one shoulder. "Do you want me to do your hair?" He asked, since he didn't want to see what Sherlock's hair was like when it wasn't properly taken care of. Luckily, John's was still dry.  Truthfully, John would have liked to do it, even if it meant denim clinging to him uncomfortably for a few more minutes. Sherlock's hair was wonderful and John wanted an excuse to wantonly slut his hands through it.

Sherlock responded without opening his eyes, but his breathing pattern shifted from being deep and even to something that meant he was a little more awake and aware. "If you'd like to." It surprised him how much he liked it when John ran his hands through it, honestly. It gave him goosebumps sometimes and there was no way to explain why it made him feel so comfortable, but there it was. Sherlock moved so that he was sitting up more, cradling John against his chest now. The water had cooled and the temperature difference was causing the hair on his arms to stand on end. Sherlock finally opened his eyes, and they were warm and fully focused on John.

"I'd love to, really." John nodded, cupping his hands in the water and then opening them to wet Sherlock's hair, careful not to get it in his eyes. It wasn't cold, but it wasn't hot either, not by any stretch. He did this a few more times even though it would have been just as easy to ask Sherlock to dunk his head in, but it was nicer to do it in this slower, languid way that required less jostling. John was starting to get stiff, but it _was_ comfortable being pulled lovingly close to him. Then John glanced down at him and saw mercurial eyes looking up at him, and they should have been cold since they were the color of ice but they weren't. John's breath caught in his throat, and the feeling in his chest at the look in Sherlock's eyes was so sharp he had to turn his head away. It wasn't for Sherlock's sake, since Sherlock could no doubt feel it himself, but it was for John's, so he didn't break down and kiss the man or freak out like he had in bed last night. He felt on the edge of that, seriously. He reached for the bottle of shampoo instead and soon he was washing Sherlock's hair, and it was slow and gentle, more of a massage than anything, and he took his time with it, enjoying the feeling of it under his fingers for a few minutes longer than was absolutely necessary.

Sherlock took to humming while John worked. There was always some kind of melody running in the back of his head, some note he'd heard and decided to work in to a song, or a bit of old music he liked at the moment. Sometimes he'd give voice to it with his violin, but that wasn't an option right now, and so he'd have to make due. He didn't usually do it in front of other people, far too human to be humming along to a song, but Sherlock didn't count John as other people. He sat in the tub, holding the other man close, and just enjoyed the sensation of hands running along his head. "I know I have just said it, but you have wonderful hands." He said in a soft voice that was bordering on a purr. This was nice. It was beyond soothing. "You like my hair," He observed a moment later. It was...endearing.

John hummed, considering it. Sherlock's hair was curly and even went as far as messy, but it never stopped being gorgeous. It framed his face in just the perfect way and the dark shape of it made Sherlock's cheekbones even more noticeable. Not to mention it was soft. John was fascinated by it. "Yes, I suppose I do." He said, though that felt like a gross understatement. "And thank you. Since you seem so keen to point it out, I'll repeat it. If you want me to use them on you all you have to do is ask." He leaned forward and pressed his forehead to Sherlock's collar even as he slowly kept up his lathering. "You should see what I can do to a person's back after a hard day's work." Sherlock's humming was beautiful and hypnotic. “I like your voice also, just so you know.”

Sherlock shivers a bit, at the water trickling down his neck and John's hands in his hair. "Do not tempt me, or I may be begging you to put your hands on me every night." After a moment he realized how...dirty that could be taken. He didn't correct himself. "My voice?" He deliberately lowers it, drops it an octave lower than his normal speaking tone, "Perhaps we can trade; you, rubbing me down, and in turn I will speak and let you listen. Do you like poetry?" His voice takes on dragging, husky lilt, "My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains my sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk, or empties some dull opiate to the drains. One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk: 'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot, but being too happy in thine happiness," He stopped, to observe John's reaction.

John wouldn't exactly object to that, to be honest. He didn't mind using his hands. He was used to it, it was his job.  John was about to agree that yes, that would be a fair trade, since Sherlock's voice going that low was wonderful, but Sherlock didn't stop, he kept going. John couldn't be blamed for letting his hands fall to rest on Sherlock's chest before his job of rinsing out Sherlock's hair was finished, or of closing his eyes and let his mouth hang open, because Sherlock's voice over those words was.... Fucking holy shit. John finally swallowed, mouth suddenly dry. "I think I could learn to like it." He said softly, because though he'd never been a fan before, who would pass up listening to THAT?!

Sherlock's hands lifted to wrap around John's as they landed on his chest. He squeezed them tight, threaded his fingers through, and laughed, a full sound far from the one he used when he was shamming and trying to pass as normal. "Then I believe we have a deal, Dr. Watson."  He lifted up a bit more so that he was sitting up right. Most of the suds were out of his hair and it would only take a dip or two to fully rinse it out. "Shall we get out now? I can only guess at how uncomfortable those pants are."

Finally, John relented, nodding. "Only if we can proceed immediately to bed." He agreed, having a feeling that Sherlock would agree to his terms. John gave Sherlock's hands a squeeze in his own before he reached forward to grab the edge of the rub and pulled himself up and out, careful not to put uncomfortable weight on Sherlock as he did so. He immediately got out of his pants. He was very lucky not to have an uncomfortable rash, and he reached forward for a towel to dry himself off immediately while Sherlock rinsed his hair out.

Sherlock hunched and scooped some water on to his head, rubbing his hair between his fingers. He repeated the process until the soap was gone from his hair, then stood up from the tub himself, the water running in little rivets down the pale, lanky expanse of his entire body. He wipes a stray curl away from his eyes with one hand while the other reaches out for another towel to use to drag along his head and to pat his body down. He steps carefully out of the tub so that he does not slip and end up causing a wreck in the loo.

And John, conscious of his lover's continuing weakness,  offers him a hand as soon has he has his own towel secured around his waist. "Have anything else you need to get done before bed, Sherlock?" He asked easily, willing to wait but also eager to lie down in Sherlock's arms.  "You better get some sleep tonight. Six hours at least." He said in a no nonsense voice suggesting that he would know if Sherlock didn't. Finally he sighed and leaned back. "I would be exhausted after the day you've had, even with your superior physiology."

Sherlock uses the hand to get out, grateful for it. His body no longer aches abominably like it did before, but it's still stiff and weak and not responding as it should to his commands. He hates it, hates it more than the pain, that he's not in control as he should be. He drops John's hand in order to tie the towel firmly about his own waist, then takes John's hand again and laces their fingers. "Nothing pressing. I must admit to being quite tired. I won't mind sleeping. Are you as well? If not, I can lay down alone and you might join me later...?" He says, unsure. Whichever way John chooses, they must leave the loo eventually, and so he exits while pulling John along behind him, stopping to flick the light and vent off with one finger. Sherlock wants nothing more in this moment than to fall asleep wrapped around John.

John scoffed. "As if I'd let you go to bed alone. Not happening. Not tonight, at least." He was rather tired himself after chasing after Sherlock all around town.  John would like dearly to get some good sleep now. His eyes weren't sagging, but he was physically tired, bone weary. John thought that Sherlock was crazy for even considering that he might choose to let Sherlock fall asleep alone. Especially after how intimate this all was. No, John was going to bed with him. "I'll get some sleep of my own just fine." All there was now was to find a comfortable way to lie, cuddled up, and fall asleep.

Sherlock smiled, not just a little twisting of his lips like normal, but an actual smile showing off his teeth and the soft glaze to his eyes that normal people had. It wasn't the dead look he sometimes had when he smiled. "That sounds perfectly acceptable to me." He pulled John in to his own room, since it was closer. The bed was clean, made fresh, and it had nothing stacked on it at the moment. The rest of the room was a bit of a clutter, not dirty but packed with books. Reference guides, medical texts, nonfiction. Anything he might find useful. Sherlock let go of John's hand to go over to the side of the bed farthest from the door. He'd read, once, that those with frequent nightmares and PTSD liked to sleep nearest to the exit route. Sherlock yanked down the covers and slid in to the cold satiny sheets.

John took a moment to look around the room when he entered it. It wasn’t as much of a disaster area as the rest of the flat, more control to the chaos. It bothered John a little, but this was exclusively Sherlock's space, so he wouldn't comment. As for the living room...It would become tidy even if John had to tidy it himself, and John would find a little corner of the kitchen to keep tidy as well, for actually preparing food.  John knew he couldn't neutralize the mess completely, and it was still Sherlock's place to live too, so he'd try not to interfere too much.   John didn't think much of Sherlock’s preference for the farthest side of the bed. He might have nightmares on any given night, no matter where he was sleeping. More importantly, being near the exit didn't make him feel any safer. Sherlock did.  John got into bed as well, taking off the towel and tucking his feet under the blankets. "I still owe you a leg and a back. You can cash in on that now if you like. Or any other time.”




Sherlock slid closer to the other man as soon as he was in the bed, unsure for the moment whether he wanted to hold John or be held. In the end he wrapped one arm around John's waist and let him decide how this would be. "I'll cash in on it later." Sherlock burrowed his nose in to the juncture between John's neck and shoulder, inhaling lazily. "I believe we'd both like to just sleep, yes?" He felt as if he could sleep for ages, he was that exhausted from the day’s events. The starvation was one thing, that would have made him tired anyway, but with the trigger word added on top...If he did not sleep until morning, for once, he would be very shocked. "Relax, John. Do not worry about taking care of me. What you've done is enough." His words were already starting to become slurred with the threat of sleep. "I have never had someone invested enough to take care of me like that, you know. It is...nice."

John could see him fading and knew that the two of them should lie down fully right away. Gently, he pushed Sherlock down to the blankets, onto his back, and then he settled right into Sherlock's side, laying against him and letting one hand rest on Sherlock's chest, gently rubbing over the skin there as he closed his eyes.  "I'll do as I please, Sherlock." He said with a hint of good natured annoyance. "I don't care if it's "enough". You deserve more than enough." He laid his own head in near Sherlock's collar, hoping his head wouldn't cut off circulation while Sherlock slept. John felt good being the only one to get this close, but at the same time, it was sad to think that nobody had taken care of Sherlock before. "Not even when you were sick? Got the sniffles? What about your mum?" Sherlock said he'd been born, after all.

Sherlock shook his head gently, his slightly damp hair tickling at John's skin. "If ever I got sick, I locked myself in my room until I got better. Mummy would come by every now and then, make sure I was alive, ask if I was hungry. Mycroft would knock and listen for breathing, then leave. Vampires...We are a tight knit clan, but...not very familial. If you are weak, you do not deserve to live. If I had died in the middle of the night from sickness, my family would have been said, but they would have considered it for the better. Otherwise, I would have been a bit of weakness dragging them all down. I wondered, sometimes when I was little, if they would have been the same even if they were human." He cracked a yawn and clung closer to John, soaking up his warmth. His fingers began tracing lightly over any bit of skin he could reach.

John frowned. It was so different from his childhood, of his mother tucking him into bed and keeping him warm and making him soup, and Harry coming in to lovingly tease him about how much of a wimp he was. John thought of how he might treat Sherlock if he got the sniffles. "I hope you don't mind if I'm familial with you." He asked softly. He didn't want to have to learn to be so...Well, cold. It wasn't that they hadn't cared, it seemed, but they'd trusted that Sherlock didn't need help getting himself through his own tough times, and it did seem as if in this they were more animal than human. Quite differently, John wanted to make things better for Sherlock, at the least cost to him. Rubbing him down or making his soup wouldn't be the half of it.

Sherlock chuckled, just a little puff of breath. "John. You can be however you want with me. I certainly won't mind." And this was probably a bit dangerous, heading in to territory he'd already brought up once this evening, and if he were entirely awake he wouldn't have said something that telling. But the idea of John caring enough to want to be around him while he was sick, to help even when there would be nothing he could do...it made his chest warm and tight. He started humming again, much like in the bath, but this time it was a soft little lullaby he'd learned when he was young.

John gave him his own long sigh, and Sherlock could feel the muscles of John's body relaxing and unwinding as he exhaled.  John considered Sherlock's words for a long moment. "I don't want to be any way that will make you uncomfortable. _That_ is what I want.” I n a quick moment of fancy, he leaned his head up and kissed beneath Sherlock's ear, just because he could. "You have to tell me if I'm too...Touchy feely, or anything else, really, I guess. I can't imagine I'd mind laying off a bit to make you happy."

Sherlock shook his head again after the little kiss. "You do not understand. I dislike being touched, yes, and I do not like expressions of affection, but that is in regards to other people. You are..." He hesitates, doesn't want to say 'special' even though it's true, "an exception." Sherlock stares up in to the darkness that really isn't dark for him, and listens to the deep draw of John's breath in his lungs. "Nothing you do will make me truly uncomfortable." And even if it does, he will not say anything. He will take anything John has to offer, happily, and never complain.

But John had already been duped twice, and he wouldn't be fooled again. He knew now where Sherlock was going with this, and it was silly but Jon wouldn't let up this time. His voice was slightly hard when he spoke. "Let's just say that by some crazy random happenstance, I did do something to make you uncomfortable, though. You _would_ tell me." John realized that he was getting apprehensive about something so small, but after Sherlock had kept secrets from him before, he needed to drive home the fact that that was unacceptable. He didn't like nagging or being the bad guy, though. John forced his tense shoulders to relax and cuddled a bit closer to Sherlock. He was sorry for being so particular and serious, and that much was easy to feel through the bond. "It's just...We have a life to spend together, Sherlock. If bad things happen we have to face them, we can't just push them under a rug and hope they get better."

Sherlock's chest felt annoyingly warm and tight at John's casual mention of them having a life together. For once he understood just what John was getting at, understood the deeper meaning, instead of being confused. Sherlock's hand stopped tracing patterns on John's skin and moved to take a hold of John's hand, lacing their fingers and squeezing them tight. "I would tell you. I find it unlikely that you will do anything that I will find uncomfortable, but if you do, I will tell you." Sherlock found himself conceding to John in all emotional matters.  He wouldn't bin his experiments or make a cup of tea on a regular day, but he'd certainly cave and make promises on the serious issues that John brought up. The ball was, as they say, firmly in John's court when it came to such things.

John took another deep breath and let it out, helping himself relax. Sherlock's words were wonderful in helping him calm the fuck down. So was his hand joining John's own on Sherlock's chest. "Thank you, Sherlock." He said wearily. He had more confidence in Sherlock now, and he could see Sherlock resolutely doing a 180 and changing his tune. He didn't think Sherlock would flipflop on this particular promise. "In the meantime, I intend to cuddle up to you every chance I get. When it's appropriate, at least." John hadn't particularly cared when half of Scotland Yard walked in on them kissing, but that had been a special kiss. Any kind of everyday, common affection around, say, Lestrade, would just be...Awkward.

Sherlock could tell he was thinking of their spectacular interruption by the Yard. John might not have cared too much, but Sherlock was still dreading the next crime scene. Oh, Lord, Sally would probably accuse him of buying John to, ahem, scrub his floors for him, just as Anderson had suggestion when they were leaving. "When appropriate." He agreed, not wanting to think of the looks on any of their faces should John do so at a crime scene. He wouldn't really mind, only so long as no one was there to see it. Sherlock stretched his body out, muscles rippling from shoulder to legs like a great big cat, and his mouth cracked open in a wide grin. "Sleep, now, I think." His voice is slow, a lazy drawl, and his eyes are sliding closed. He doesn't loosen his hold on John one bit.

John is surprised as a yawn catches him, and his jaw opens wide as he lets it out, and he nods, finally laying his head comfortably on Sherlock's shoulder. "Yes, agreed." He said, letting his eyes shut too. "I'll try not to slug you in my sleep this time." He said, and let his mind drift into that haziness of thought that preceded sleep. This was nice, so nice, and two nights in a row made it even nicer. John thought he probably would not get to enjoy falling asleep with Sherlock more than a few nights a week, since Sherlock would be all over the place getting stuff done, but perhaps he'd been wrong.

Sherlock had no plans to drastically alter his existing sleep schedule, after he'd rested from today's ordeal, but this...it was nice, really. Last night had been as well. For once he understood why people stuck around after sex and wanted to insist on 'cuddling'. Simply laying together with John was lovely, and it was making his chest constrict and heat up again. "I'll release you immediately if you begin thrashing." He assured. Sherlock hoped there would be no nightmares tonight, but if there were, he would be more prepared. His breathing evened out, deepened, as he relaxed fully against John. "Night, love," He murmured with the last of his higher functions before he slid off in to sleep. The endearment had slipped out, he hadn't even thought of it, as if he'd been using it for years and as if John should think nothing of it.

John heard it in his last waking moment, and responded with a soft, "Goodnight, Sherlock." John tried not to think about how terrible it felt to not say the same back, but really, how could he? John felt a lump forming in his throat and he knew that his mind had been jostled back awake again by Sherlock's words and his own thoughts. He wanted to be enough for Sherlock, desperately. How could he be enough if he couldn't honestly respond in kind? John had seen the expression on Sherlock's face earlier when John hadn't responded, even if it had only been a second before he'd slipped beneath the water. After the kiss, John knew that Sherlock wasn't upset with him, that he accepted it, but John still didn't like it. He wanted to be more. He wanted to be better, for Sherlock. He'd been so devoid of this kind of love and affection his entire life...He deserved even better than John could currently give him. But like hell John was giving Sherlock up, so for now, they'd both just have to deal with it.

Sherlock, once he woke much later, would be surprised to find that he slept deeply and contentedly. Usually when he attempted to get long hours - to him, anyway - of sleep, he awoke often and in the end it all left him irritable in the morning. He slept on, peacefully unaware of any of John's tumultuous thoughts. Sherlock's arm stayed twined around John's body like an octopus and, while he was shifting about, his legs neatly slid between John's own as if they were pieces of a puzzle fitting in perfectly. And he dreamed. He'd wake in the morning and not remember exactly what it was he'd been dreaming of, but there would be a strong sense of affection connected to it, and the hint of an image of the man with the mustache and the warm blue eyes. Sherlock breathed steadily across John's chest, hot little puffs of air being expelled in oddly precise intervals.

After a while John was able to quiet his thoughts and get to sleep. He didn't sleep as well as he might have, but he wasn't plagued by his normal nightmares. That was a heaven-sent right there. When he woke up it was the second thing he noticed. The first thing that he noticed was that he was a little scruffy. John preferred to keep himself clean shaven, the way he always had been for the military. He thought it was also important to shave for Sherlock's sake. Stubble burn on pale skin was not a sight he thought he'd relish. After enjoying a few long minutes of the warmth of Sherlock's body still holding his close, he was disrupted by the sound of Sherlock's mobile buzzing noisily on the nightstand.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Plot. Bwahaha!

Sherlock cracked open a single eye, awakened instantly by the sound of that distinct ringtone coming from his cell. "What in the devil does he want?" He grumbled, shifting away from John just enough so he could flail out an arm to snag the phone. He went right back to his previous position, pressed against John like a clingy monster. He turned his head slightly, though, so that he could press the phone to his ear. "This had better be important, Mycroft. It is too early to deal with you." There is a hesitation on the other line, a small little exhale that most people wouldn't even notice. But Sherlock Holmes is not most people. He sits up, draws away from John, and puts his back to the headboard, instantly awake and alert, brushing off the last bits of sleep. "What?" He asks, tense.

"Certain things have come to my attention," Mycroft says, voice only slightly different from the one he uses every day. That in itself is worrying. "Things having to do with one John Watson, in fact. There is no danger, but I am certain something is afoot and it would be for the best if you were aware of this. Many years ago I proposed the idea of putting a glamour on you, for certain reasons. You agreed. It made sense at the time, I promise you. But...I believe it is time it is removed. There are circumstances that you do not currently have the ability to understand. Please allow me to end the glamour."

Sherlock is frozen. His confusion is plain on his face for once. "When?" He asks.

Mycroft's reply is instant, "Now. I cannot get away from the office, you will meet me here."

Sherlock is already swinging his legs over the side of the bed, setting his feet against the cold wood. "I will be there momentarily. Mycroft..." Sherlock pauses. "Is John in any danger?" His head turns to look at the man in question, eyes narrowed and intense, so very intense.

"I do not believe so, but this is all very odd."                                                            




Sherlock nods, the motion jerky. "Fine. I will be there soon." And he ends the call before Mycroft can reply.

John blinked himself even more awake, and was about to sit up when Sherlock was once more wrapping himself around him, like a bloody octopus. John thought he should probably be more annoyed than he actually was. He was surprised when Sherlock then actually did disentangled himself. John lifted up his head, watching Sherlock become serious. He was talking to Mycroft, so whatever it was must have been, well, _actually_ important. John straightened up himself. Ready to get up and go the moment Sherlock needed him. When Sherlock hung up, John pushed himself up. "You're going to meet Mycroft? What's up?" He pressed his lips together, worried. "Should I come?" If it was this important that Sherlock would actually go and see Mycroft without complaint or fighting it...It had to be important.

Sherlock shook his head, standing and stretching the sleep from his bones. "No. No, there's no need. Stay. Relax." His eyes dragged over John, just once, before he headed to the closet to throw on some clothes that he barely paid attention to. "It shouldn't take long. I'll return soon." He nods in goodbye, a little reassuring smile playing on his lips. It's fake, but hopefully John cannot tell. He exits the room and snatches up his coat, sliding it on as he takes in a slow, even breath, steadying himself.

But John COULD tell. Sherlock had taken a call from his BROTHER, and was not even making a big to-do about it. He was just obediently going. John swallowed and got up after him, ignoring the warm rush that went through him as Sherlock took stock of him, taking the sight of him in as though he was worried he might need the information for a long time to come. "You'll tell me what this is all about when you get back, won't you?" He asked, real concern on his face. Something was troubling Sherlock, and John didn't know what... But whatever it was, it was important.

Sherlock was torn. He'd promised to be honest, broken that once, and he wanted to tell John what was going on. The problem was that he himself didn't even really know what was going on. Sherlock touches his fingertips to John's cheek, a light little touch. "I will tell you if I am able. I'm not sure what is going on right now. I'll be back soon." He turned away before he could say anything else, left the room before he did something stupid that he’d feel embarrassed for or might regret later. He does not hesitate when he sees the familiar black car outside, just slides in to the seat.  His fingers took up tapping his nervousness out on his knee. He needed to be composed for when they arrived. He may show John his weakness, but there was no way in any of the hells he was going to show it to Mycroft.

John stepped to the window to watch Sherlock leave. How the man could be flawlessly dressed in so little time was truly an enigma. John wasn't surprised that there was already a black car waiting to receive Sherlock. Was it possible that it could be a trap, that Mycroft had brought Sherlock in to punish him for fighting back that day? John couldn't help but worry for him. Surely Sherlock was too smart to be led into such an obvious trap? John sighed, and decided that some coffee was in order this morning. Strong enough to wake his brain up just in case Sherlock could call, just in case Sherlock should need him.

Anthea greeted him in the car by instantly being on the offensive. She would not so easily forget him pushing her down. "I don't know what you've done this time or what your human pet has to do with this, but it's gotten Mycroft quite upset. You should watch yourself." She said all of this while snarling down at her Blackberry, not giving Sherlock the courtesy of looking at him while she berated him.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. He, too, would not be forgetting the ease with which he took care of her. Her snarling and derision was not that worrisome when he had already shown who was the dominant one in this situation. After a moment of silence where he ignored her as easily as she ignored him in favor of that Blackberry, he slid his own phone out of his pocket. He sent a text to John.

_Stop worrying. I can hear you from here. – SH_

Sherlock took up looking out the window, watching the windows pass by with speed. It wasn't long before they pulled up before an unassuming office building. Its drab brick blended in perfectly with all of the other buildings around it, and unless you knew better, you would not ever guess it housed the British Government. He hopped out of the car as soon as it pulled to a stop, not waiting on Anthea to direct him or try and lead him. He knew where he was going. It may have been many years, but he still remembered the proper path to get to Mycroft's office. It was only a matter of several minutes to locate it. He knocked, just once, before entering.

Anthea followed him with great speed anyway, just to make sure he did not detour. She knew he knew the way, but he was her responsibility for now. She would even consider herself relieved when he got where he was going without a hitch. Other workers watched him wearily, but did not try to stop them. There had been a memo sent out, after all.  Back home at Baker Street, John received his text, and let out a sigh of what could almost be called relief. He texted back instantly.

_Hard not to with you spiriting away to your dangerous brother after a serious phone call. Don't almost get yourself killed again this time. JW_

 John hoped that would be enough. Perhaps it truly wasn't anything dangerous at all. Perhaps he was overreacting. Or perhaps Sherlock was getting murdered as they spoke. John would have no way of knowing.

Sherlock stepped in to the room and attempted to shut the door in Anthea's face. He didn't really care if it worked or not, he just wanted to take out some of his irritation and frustration on someone else. Sherlock was lucky that whatever this was, it was important, because otherwise she would have ended him for his impertinence. Or at least tried. Even if she hadn't succeeded, her honor was compromised if she just let him get away with shit like that. Instead she stepped into the room, and watched, staying quiet. The following exchange between the two brothers was fascinating, actually. Sherlock knew Mycroft well enough to trust him with this, even if he did not trust him with anything else.

He turned immediately to his brother, always the most dangerous one in the room. "I would like more information." Best to be blunt. He was very confused.

 Mycroft sighed and gestured to a chair, which, after a moment, Sherlock sat down in. "Years ago you decided to delete some information, some memories. It was really for the better, as it was causing you..." He paused, his lips turning down a bit in distaste. "Emotional upset. I glamoured you to help." Sherlock raised a single eyebrow in disbelief at Mycroft wanting to help him. "You know it is true, Sherlock, we cannot glamour our own kind without permission." Sherlock gave a reluctant nod, still saying silent. "In any case, I never expected it would need to be taken off. I thought the case was closed. However...I have gotten a better look at your John Watson, after our initial meeting, and that glamour needs to break."

Sherlock shook his head, "But why? What does this have to do with John?"

Mycroft's mouth thinned in to a hard line. "I am not fully sure what is going on. But for once, Sherlock, you must trust me. There is something odd and you need to be aware of it. Now. Come, I must take this glamour off." Mycroft stood from his position behind the desk and stepped out from behind it, lifting a hand. Erasing a glamour was much harder than placing one, and it was best to have skin to skin contact as well as eye contact. Sherlock watched him for a long moment, eyes narrowed and body tense. There was something wrong and his brother, with his eyes and ears everywhere, did not know what it was? This was serious. Sherlock stepped forward, allowing Mycroft to place three fingers lightly along his jaw, his temple, and his forehead. They locked eyes. There was an odd sensation in Sherlock's head, as if a soft blanket was being slipped off of him, one that he wasn't even aware of. His fingers curled in to fists. Mycroft was very, very good with glamours. They were layered in to his mind, not a solid block so much as a fog that never let him past.

The removal of the glamour was not at all like the breaking of John's glamour. Layers and layers of thin, sweet silence were slowly sucked away, and unlike John's glamour where the information had all slammed into him at once, nothing new became readily apparent in Sherlock's mind. It felt exactly as before, if slightly...More free. Less restricted. And the tickling  feeling of having forgotten something, partially left behind by Sherlock's own deletion process. All Sherlock needed now was the correct trigger. Fortunately, he lived with one.

Sherlock opened eyes that he hadn't been aware of closing, and shook his head side to side slowly, as if clearing out the rest of the fog from his mind. Then he stepped back, away from Mycroft. He cleared his throat. "Thank you, I suppose." And that was that, really. Mycroft was far too busy to try and engage in chatter, even if he'd wanted to, even if Sherlock would have participated. Mycroft just nodded in return and sat back down behind his desk. "Goodbye, Sherlock. Good luck with this as well." Sherlock grunted in response, eyeing Anthea by the door with a smirk on his face. Oh, she must hate him. The thought of annoying yet another person put a spring in his step as he exited the room and wandered his way back through the maze of halls until he was squinting in the sun. It hurt his skin a bit. He realized belatedly that he hadn't put on any sunscreen before he left. Sherlock pulled out his cell again as he got back in the car.

_Have avoided almost getting myself killed. It was hard, but I managed. Heading home. Will be there momentarily. – SH_

Once that was done he had an entire car ride to brood over what all this meant, and to examine that pesky little feeling in the back of his head that he was forgetting something important. Well. That was obvious, now. That nagging feeling he had been getting lately was because he actually had forgotten something.

It was important, yes, but not readily apparent. Sherlock's own abilities of blocking things out himself was formidable, but like any hard drive, things weren't truly deleted, just made rewriteable. And something deep inside Sherlock knew that those memories would be the very LAST to be rewritten. As it was, almost everything remained, locked away, and now with only one line of defense.

Back at Baker Street, John gave a sigh of relief as he got the second text. Sherlock was on his way home, alive. He could ask what everything was about later. In the meantime...John rubbed a hand over his cheek and winced as he felt how rough his skin was there. John finished his coffee and then got up to go shave. It would be a welcome surprise for Sherlock when he got back, no doubt. Stubble burn was fun for no one. He felt a little flash of good humored jealousy at Sherlock’s apparent complete lack of facial hair.

Sherlock took the stairs two at a time once he'd gotten back to Baker Street, eager to be back inside. His skin was feeling a bit too tight at the moment, even in the car with blacked out windows. He was certain his face would be a bit pink when he looked in to a mirror. When he thought of John, waiting in the flat, in the back of his mind was there still constant sense of something forgotten, like it was just on the tip of his tongue. "John?" He called once he was inside. The coat and gloves were quickly dropped. He heard running water from the loo and he headed that way.

John, who was now in the middle of the soothing act of shaving, carefully pulled his razor away from his face as he spoke. He used a normal, everyday disposable razor. He'd experimented with straight razors before and liked them quite a bit, but using them took a bit more time than he usually had, even if it was nicer and generally left a smoother shave. "I'm in here, but you can come in." John was relieved to hear Sherlock's voice, and it was difficult to keep himself from smiling, but he had to. His face made too many lines when he smiled for him to shave without cutting himself. His eyes sparkled all the same though, and that was visible when Sherlock stepped in. John was just finishing up his cheeks. He'd already done his chin and the very sides of his face (leaving the acceptable amount of sideburn) and now all that was left was his upper lip, which was still covered in a robust amount of shaving foam.

Sherlock stopped at the threshold of the door, smiling a bit at John, before he caught sight of his face. He wasn't sure when he'd been expecting those deleted memories to come back. Nor had he thought about what would happen to make them apparent. But the sight of John with that ridiculous foam mustache cracked Sherlock's (rather feeble, he had to admit, obviously he hadn't been in quite the best mental state, as Mycroft had said) attempt at deleting all of his old memories of John Watson, ala the Victorian era. His eyes widened and his mouth opened. He stumbled back with a soft gasp, the images flashing in front of his eyes in quick succession. He wasn't reliving them so much as just being aware of all that had happened before. It was that twinkle in John's eye matched with the mustache that his counterpart had always had. Sherlock felt nauseous. Confused. Alarmed. After a moment he didn't know what he felt, really. There was too much. He stood against the wall in a daze, still staring at an alarmed John, eyes unfocused.

John caught Sherlock's eye in the mirror, but by then it was already too late. "Sherlock?" It was obvious from the look on Sherlock's face that there was something very, very wrong. John set down the razor and splashed his face with water, rinsing it quickly, not caring a bit that he wasn't yet finished shaving. He whirled around and took a step towards Sherlock, but the feral look in his eyes said that it probably was not the best time to touch him. "What's wrong? Did Mycroft do something to you?"

Inside Sherlock's head, he could suddenly remember everything. Meeting Dr. Watson (the scenario had several disturbing parallels with how he'd met the John of now), becoming his flatmate and partner. How amazed with Sherlock's brilliance he'd always been, and his willingness to help Sherlock in his every endeavor. His acceptance when he learned that Sherlock was a vampire, and then when Sherlock explained (or half explained) the bond, his agreement to let Sherlock feed from him. The many blissful years they'd spent living together. Not quite lovers, but much, much more than friends. Happiness. His and Watson's. Then Sadness. Isolation. Mary Morstan. Watson falling in love with a woman, wanting to be with her. Agreeing to Sherlock's offer of wiping memories of them together. And then, many more agonizing, but still happy years of being by Watson's side, even if Watson was no longer his. Then, as Watson grew old and eventually died, loneliness. Desolation. Desperation until Sherlock was willing to claw his own brains out via his ears and was willing to do anything to forget that happiness he was no longer allowed to have. He'd been merciful for Watson, but life wasn't merciful to him. Luckily, Mycroft had been.

Sherlock slid down the wall until his hind end hit the floor and his knees were folded in front of him. He dipped his head between them, holding it in both of his hands. "God, no," He whimpered, "No, no, I don't want to remember, why-" He cut himself off. He knew why. There was no reason to ask pointless questions, even if he was probably in shock. Especially since John couldn't answer...John. John, who should be dead. John, who wasn't even exactly like Watson.  Oh, how cruel. Why was this happening? Why was John here, why did he have to remember, oh, why? It hurt. He didn't want to remember how badly he missed Watson, or how much it hurt when he'd erased all of his memories of them together, or of how he stood by Watson's side as his best man and watched his heart agree to belong forever to someone else. He became aware of an odd sound. It took him a long moment to realize it was his own gasping.  Yes. Sherlock was most definitely slipping in to shock. He couldn't find the ability to answer John, to reassure him that while Mycroft had in fact done something to him, he wasn't responsible for this gross lapse of emotional control. His head ached. Everything was a swirl of confusion and hurt.

John knew that he wasn't any help looming over Sherlock, so he crouched down with him as he slid. Sherlock was going into shock, that much was obvious by his shaking body and his hyperventilating. John's mind ticked. He didn't want to remember? But just what was it he was remembering. He didn't know, but he did know that a glamour must have been involved. That must have been what had happened with Mycroft, he'd removed a glamour. John knew now that was what had happened. And, since he'd remembered when he saw John, and he'd mentioned John when talking on the phone earlier that day, the memories had to do with him.

Which, unless there had been quite a bit of tampering with his own memory, was impossible.

But now John knew exactly what Sherlock was going through. He knew the terrible shock of suddenly remembering things you were not expecting to ever remember. Whatever it was, it was hurting Sherlock, and now John knew what his responsibility was. He reached forward, putting his hand on Sherlock's head, tangling his fingers in the hair there, and stroking him gently. "Hey." He said softly. "Hey, look at me, it's alright, whatever you remember, we'll figure it out. Come on, look at me."

Sherlock drew in a deep breath. John's touch helped to steady him, to anchor him in the present, helped him not be swept away in the past and the sorrow and the sheer bloody confusion. One hand let go of his hair to grip at John's own, the one not preoccupied. His mind raced, trying to explain things. Sherlock couldn't stand not knowing everything. "I'm alright," He whispered, to let John know that he was back and not still in the grip of his shock. His body was shivering, though, a classic sign of it. He took one more deep breath to prepare himself before he looked up at John's face. There was a little flash of Watson's face over John's own, but it faded quickly. He sucked in a sharp breath, though. For the first time in a long time, he longed for his drugs. He longed for something to slow everything down, for something that would obliterate his thoughts and make everything irrelevant.

John gave a breathless laugh. "Bullshit, Sherlock, your legs just gave out." He said, voice still soft, but now with a touch of humor. He squeezed Sherlock's hand tight, since physical comfort seemed to be the way to go, and he pulled Sherlock's head up gently by his hair so he could lean in and give Sherlock a long, soft kiss, to slow his breathing down. When they both seemed to have centered themselves a little more, John murmured softly, "Come on, let's get out of here. We'll get comfortable on the sofa or in bed and we can talk this through, alright?"

Sherlock returned the kiss, but a part of him was screaming that this wasn't right, that this was wrong, that this wasn't Watson. Clearly it was going to take a while for his mind to settle down. It had been repressing these things for an awfully long time. It was to be expected, he guessed. With a great sigh he pulled himself up. Sherlock felt a bit unsteady on his feet, but when he stepped forward to go in to the living room he didn't wobble. The thought of retiring to the bed was nice, but again, that small part of him was screaming that it wouldn't lay with John. It felt like betraying a lover’s memory, but at the same time...not. Sherlock wanted to go break down quietly by himself. Instead he forced himself to the very open living room where John could witness it all.

John could see it there, how awkward he was, and he wondered if Sherlock might like some privacy so he could break down without worrying what John saw, or what he thought. Then he remembered what Sherlock had told him about when he'd been sick as a child. John wouldn't leave him alone at a time like this, he'd take care of him. "Let me make you some tea, alright?" He said, guiding Sherlock down onto the couch and then giving him another little kiss on the forehead. He'd keep his back turned for a little while, stay in the other room, but still within earshot. That way, he was there if Sherlock needed him, wanted to talk. He wasn't leaving Sherlock alone to deal with this by himself. John really didn't give a toss if his upper lip was still a little bristly.

Sherlock huffed a reply, something that might have been a yes or a no, and drew his legs up again once he was seated on the end of the couch. His fingers rubbed soothing circles in to his temples, trying to will away the headache he was developing. No wonder Mycroft was so worried. There was really no way to logically explain this. Sherlock gave himself a moment to stare down at his knees and just remember all the little things he had forced himself in to forgetting, all the things he missed enough to allow Mycroft to glamour him. Then he drew himself up and began to carefully rebuild and fortify until he was able to act like he normally would. He was going to have to explain this to John. There would be no other way. He couldn't just pass this off as something else, there had obviously been something wrong and it had to do with John, who wasn't an idiot. John would have been able to see that.

 John gave Sherlock that time, taking a little longer than was strictly necessary, and then returned to the living room with a nice cuppa. He sat close at Sherlock's side, offering it to him, and began to speak gently. "There was a glamour on you, and Mycroft removed it... And then I made you remember what he'd been covering up." He reached forward and gently rubbed his thumb over Sherlock's knee, letting the rest of his hand fall there in a comforting gesture as he balanced the saucer on his own leg. "That the gist of it?"

Sherlock took a long sip of the tea, made exactly as he liked it. He wasn't surprised in the least that John had figured it out. Well, figured it out mostly. Jesus, how was he going to explain this? Oh, you seem to be a slightly different offshoot of a man I was in love with several centuries ago, who got married and then died on me so I deleted it all? That might not go over so well. "Yes," He answered instead, voice a bit ruff. His eyes watched John's thumb instead of looking up at the man himself. The double image he got was unnerving when he did, and he didn't want to deal with that. "You…There was...Fuck, but I do not know how to explain this." Sherlock's hands clenched and unclenched sporadically.

John took a deep breath himself, and let it out. "I'll be patient. Take your time, and explain the best you can." He swallowed, and then gave Sherlock's knee a little squeeze. "I can't promise I won't be upset." He said, because he still had thoughts in his mind of being glamoured without anyone telling him, and THAT was not alright, and how else could it be explained that it was about him but he didn't know what was going on? "But I will listen, and I'll do my best to fix whatever is wrong. Whatever it is, you aren't alone, Sherlock." He let his arm relax, and it settled pressed against Sherlock's. "You have a mate who cares about you very much."

Sherlock bit his lip. He should be happy at the mention of John being his mate. And part of him was, as it always was when he said it. The other part was still raging on and on about how wrong this was. He didn't know which side he needed to silence. "In 1880, I met a man- A doctor, actually, recently sent home after an injury in Afghanistan. The Battle of Maiwand, to be exact. We became flatmates. Friends. Eventually, I came to love him. And he loved me as well, but not in the same way. Not as much. We were bonded. But he married. A woman by the name of Mary. I took away his memories of us in more...intimate situations, and also of my being a vampire, with his agreement, and the knowledge of the bond. She died before him, and he returned to our flat. I never gave him back his memories. Eventually he too died. I was quite...stricken." He swallowed, trying to forget just how emotionally unstable he'd been when the man died. It was really no wonder why Mycroft had supported his decision to forget. "It hurt too much. I deleted everything, and Mycroft was worried enough that he proposed the glamour to make sure I would not remember. Recently things had been breaking through, little glimpses I didn't understand..." He looked up, finally, to catch John's eye, because he couldn't not see how he would respond. "His name was John H. Watson."


	19. Chapter 19

John swallowed. These memories...They were like an off horror story. Surely this was impossible? Him being alive back then, another version of him...But even then, even if there had been another man with his name, the situation was too similar, far too similar, for it to be a simple coincidence. So what was this? Reincarnation!? That couldn't exist either, could it? John didn't want to even think of it...But here Sherlock was, just remembering his long lost love, who he'd needed so much that when the man was gone he'd gotten rid of every trace of him. John swallowed, and his eyes flicked up at Sherlock. "But... You don't know how?" He asked softly. He wanted to offer his comfort, but how could you, in a situation like this? How could he comfort Sherlock when he was what Sherlock had lost? John took a steadying breath. "This means that something's up? That I'm...Back? From the dead?" But how could that be? He'd lived his own life, all the way through. He wasn't someone who'd been resurrected. Not to mention, he was different from the previous John H. Watson. He had to be.

Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut. "I don't know. I don't understand what is happening. You're not back- you're- I mean- not him-" He stopped. Sherlock wasn't used to stumbling over his own words. He just wanted to crawl back in his bed and sleep, and when he woke up he wanted this to all have been a rather horrifying nightmare. "There's no explanation," He said after a tense pause. "I have no bloody fucking idea, John. Neither does Mycroft, and that is frightening because he always knows what is going on. That's his job. I would say perhaps you are a descendent, but everything is too similar. Different, very different, but still too similar." Doctor. Soldier. Afghanistan. Shoulder injury. Certain mannerisms. The twinkle in their eyes. The fond exasperation at heads and hands and feet in the house. The unshakable loyalty. Fuck, even that first case was similar. The lady in pink. The lady in scarlet. Sherlock felt himself start to shake again and he firmly locked his muscles down.

John could see him beginning to panic again. "Shhh, Sherlock, just try and relax." He said, though it was probably a futile effort. He took the cup and saucer from him unless he dropped them, and instead set them on the lamp table, where they were still fully within reach. John rubbed his lips together, trying to think of just what he should do. It was chilling that he was a poorly made copy of some other man, but this was about Sherlock, not him. "You're right." He said carefully. "I'm not him. Obviously." He felt a pang in his chest. "And I'm sure I couldn't replace him. But I can help, can I?" I can be something different, something better! He wanted to cry. No, no, no, Sherlock's heart had been his, his alone, but now it belonged to someone else too. Someone who was not quite him. John knew that if they were truly so similar, there was no way Sherlock could completely differentiate them, could completely forget. John would always remind Sherlock that he was not Watson, no matter how different or beloved he could be on his own.

Sherlock needed...he wasn't sure what he needed, really. A hug, perhaps. Some drugs to completely wipe his brain out for a while. Copious amounts of alcohol. But those last two were probably very bad ideas, and so he turned to the side and all but threw himself in to John's arms. Physical comfort it would have to be, then. He was having trouble separating them, yes, and he still felt hollow from remembering all about Watson, but it didn't lessen the fact that he still cared very much about John, that John was still his bondmate. Comforting each other was their job. "I don't know what to do, John," He said in a broken sort of whisper. How do you get over the love of your life seemingly coming back as a different man, centuries later? Cruel, he thought again. This is so very cruel.  What next? Was John going to find a woman to marry? Was Sherlock going to be cast aside a second time for house and home and the offer of children? There was an odd burning sensation in his eyes, something he had not felt in years.

John wasn't a passive participant in this. When Sherlock pressed himself forward, against John, John pressed himself back against him, upwards, kneeling with one knee on the couch so he could  get all of Sherlock in his arms without the other man having to crowd over. For once he was a little bit taller, and that was a good thing. He let his head drop down and he kissed Sherlock's hair softly, arms coming around to squeeze Sherlock tight. "I don't know what to do either, Sherlock." He said, desperately trying to erase his own desperately bad feelings before Sherlock could notice them. He didn't want Sherlock to know that John was feeling panicked and sad and alone and just the tiniest bit betrayed. Instead he pushed all of that aside, and instead presented a steel front. Determination. Determination to make Sherlock feel better, to make things okay. "Just like I told you, though. Whatever you decide to do, you aren't alone." John had no intention of leaving Sherlock for a woman. Or anyone, for that matter.

Sherlock felt those emotions John tried to hide, though, just a hint of them before they were drowned out by the determination. It made him feel even worse. But why, a nasty little voice whispered in his head, when John does not even love you like you love him. That, too, made him feel worse. Gods, but he was all tangled up. Sherlock clung to John like he was the only thing keeping him anchored to this world. Perhaps he was. They were going to have to just deal with this. To continue living. "I'm sorry," He mumbled in to John's shoulder, not even sure what it is he was apologizing for.

John didn't know either. "Don't apologize, you idiot." He said fondly, and raised his hand to stroke Sherlock's hair even more fondly. That had not been a mannerism specific to Watson. Watson had touched Sherlock's hair (it had been much shorter, then) and enjoyed it, but he hadn't been next to obsessed with it like John was. "None of this is your fault. In fact, you're the victim here. I think." He wanted to fix this for him, but he didn't know how. He didn't even have any idea of what was going on. He wanted Sherlock all to himself, didn't want to share him with a ghost that had his voice- and really, their voices were quite similar. But what could John do but support Sherlock the best he could?

Sherlock blinked his eyes rapidly, trying to clear them from the ridiculous fluid. How pitiful. He tipped his head a bit under John's hand and tried to focus on the differences, because if he got stuck on the similarities he was quite certain he'd go insane. Well. More insane than he probably already was. He was astounded once again by John. He might have been as shaken up as Sherlock, but he was still here, still a solid rock for Sherlock to hold on to in the middle of this harsh tide. Sherlock tilted his head up so that he could press a soft, reverent kiss to the underside of John's jaw. "I am going to find the person responsible for this. And I am going to end them." He promised, unaware that it might sound as if he hated that John was here, as if he thought he needed to avenge Watson for someone making a wanting imitation of him. That wasn't it at all. But it might have sounded like that.

It did, and John winced. It was obvious that this was a mistake. He was a copy of Watson. A poorly made one. Yes, that made perfect sense. Or it would have, except John was a person. He had a LIFE. He had family, and he had a job (sort of) and he had thoughts and feelings and memories. Was his whole existence a fake? Was his entire life just a bad copy of someone else, someone real? Including how he felt about Sherlock, and how Sherlock felt about him? Just a copy, oh, god, just a copy. John couldn't stop himself. His wall of determination died right there. This wasn't just feelings, which hurt, but could be hidden, repressed until he was in a more convenient place to feel those things, to express them. No, this was a full out identity crisis. He'd tried to stay strong for Sherlock, but now his mind was whirling too fast and HE was hyperventilating. John didn't even know who he was anymore, but that didn't matter, because Sherlock would find whoever was responsible and end this all. John closed his eyes tight, felt like he was choking, and his grip on Sherlock loosened. How could he have gone from so fucking lucky and finally feeling validated again, finally feeling like his life was worth living, to having absolutely nothing, not even a sense of self? And now the person who had let him know that life was still worthwhile wanted to end him. It was only fitting.

Sherlock jerked the instant the wall fell, when he was washed in all the things John was feeling. Oh, god. He hadn't- "No, no, no, I didn't mean it like that, no," He choked out, cupping John's face in his hands. He started to panic again. He didn't know how to fix this. Despite his hurt and confusion, John was still John. He was different from Watson in little ways that were still crucial. He was still his own person, regardless of how this happened, Sherlock realized. Fuck, he'd been wallowing in his own emotional upset that he had not even paused to consider how hard this must be on John. "Please, calm down," He begged in an urgent voice. "You're not- not just a copy, that is not how I see you, I promise. Please, calm down." One thumb stroked over John's cheekbone in what Sherlock hoped was a soothing motion. He babbled, something he hated when other people did it, but he said anything he could think of to calm and reassure the other man. A pained "I love you" might have slipped out in the end and, well, if that one part of him screamed about betrayal at it, John didn't have to know. It was irrelevant that Watson had married before. Sherlock himself had never loved after Watson. Until John, it seemed.

But it didn't matter what Sherlock meant, and it didn't matter what Sherlock felt. It didn't change the fact that John was not the first John H. Watson to exist, and that he was different in ways that meant he didn't quite add up. It didn't change that John had no idea who he was even supposed to be anymore. It didn't matter that Sherlock didn't see him as a copy, that Sherlock thought he was different from Watson. It was nice but it didn't matter what Sherlock felt, it didn't change the truth, that there had been another John Watson before him and he was just a poor re-creation of him, his whole life and everything he was. It didn't even matter that Sherlock loved him. That was nice too, but to be fair, Sherlock had loved John Watson before, so it wasn't any surprise. It also wasn't any surprise that Sherlock loved John a little bit less. Not because he'd known Watson longer or because absence made the heart grow fonder or anything that made sense like that. It was because John wasn't quite as good as Watson. Wasn't quite the same.  John shook his head, still breathing far too harshly, and tightened his hold on Sherlock again. He wanted this, even if he was only a copy. He wanted to accept Sherlock's love even if it didn't matter. But what was the point? He was an imitation. He was John Watson Lite. John swallowed a lump that had taken residence in his throat. "No, Sherlock, you're right. Find them and end it."

Sherlock felt like he might explode under the pressure of all these god damn emotions. This is why he didn't care, it hurt too bloody much. He didn't know how to handle it or how to make John realize he was more than what he thought he was. "I am going to end them, I'm going to make them suffer, for making you suffer like this. You're- you're your own person, not just an imitation." He pressed a soft kiss to John's forehead, something he couldn't seem to resist doing. Thankfully it wasn't something he'd done often to Watson, and so he could complete the motion without feeling that strange twisting in his chest. He felt like he needed to let that go, but he couldn't. Watson had been dead for a very long time, and even before that he'd made his choice to be with Mary, but Sherlock still couldn't let that go just yet. But John was here and was breathing and hadn't left Sherlock. Yet. That was...that was more important, as much as it hurt to admit. He wished he could say that it didn't matter to him, that he would love John just as much as Watson, but at the moment it was impossible. The ache was too raw, the wound too fresh and open. But was there nothing he could say to help John? There must be something. Anything. Sherlock pulled the man closer and tucked him against his body. What a complete role reversal this was

And then suddenly John's thoughts flipped again. He couldn't quite seem to keep them straight, and the natural progression was taking him along for a very painful ride that he couldn't control at all. Suddenly, what Sherlock felt mattered a great deal, because it was truly all in the world that John had. If Sherlock loved him, that was something. It was his, not Watson's, and even if it wasn't as much as Watson's, because he wasn't as good as Watson, it was still HIS. He was a bad copy, his whole life was, but it was still HIS. And Sherlock was his right now too, and he had to fight for him with all of his might. "Fuck." He hissed, and his voice was thick with tears. It wasn't very manly of him, but how was he supposed to stop them at this point? His grip on Sherlock became even tighter. He was an empty shell that was supposed to be John H. Watson, and he was BAD at it, but even if that was all he was, Sherlock knew that about him, and still wanted him, still loved him. He couldn't help the sob that escaped him. "Please." He begged Sherlock. "Tell me you're mine. At least part of you. Tell me that just a little of you belongs entirely to me." It didn't matter if he only got 1% of Sherlock's total love allotted for John Watsons, if that 1% was only for him, and not for anyone else, not for the other John or anyone else, he could live with it. Then a thought hit John again, square in the chest, and he wondered if even this wasn't possible. He and other John were so similar. Maybe Sherlock couldn't tell the difference of who he loved. That wouldn't be his fault... But John wasn't sure he could manage to share Sherlock too, along with his entire life.

Sherlock's fingers tightened hard on John's arms, hard enough he was going to wind up leaving bruises on the skin there. For once he did not care about harming the other. All he cared about was reassuring John. But could he promise this, promise that something of him belong just to this John and this John alone? Could he forget Watson enough, could he separate the two in his head enough? He pulled back, his own eyes a bit red around the edges, to stare hard at John, at the ugly little jumper he insisted on wearing, at the laugh lines that were in different spots from Watson's, at the hint of scar he could see poking out from the collar of John's jumper that was being pulled to the side by Sherlock's hands, at his pained eyes, even at the hint of a mustache that had been the start of this whole thing because it reminded him so much of Watson. He considered all of the things that were the same. All of the coincidences that had been manufactured and carefully designed. And Sherlock loves him. Separately, different than he loved Watson. And they may be the same, and they may be different, but he loves them both in different ways. And that hurts. It burns his chest in new and horrifying ways, and it makes him want to sob in reply to John's own. He crashes their lips together in a sudden motion. It's not so much a kiss as Sherlock pressing every bit of their body together, lips included, as if he could meld them in to one person. He doesn't answer verbally, hopes this will be enough, because if he speaks now his voice will be a broken, charred out attempt at his usual one.

John opens his eyes as Sherlock pulls back, not caring that Sherlock is hurting him, and just watches him. That he pulls away in the first place makes John want to give up, defeated, and collapse into what he was, a fake, and hope that the next John Watson, wherever he came from, would be an improvement on him, for Sherlock's sake, so Sherlock could have someone as worthy of loving as his original lover.  John had tried to be selfish, had even begged for what he needed, but now Sherlock was pulling away and since John was nothing, John could worry fully about Sherlock now. But then Sherlock was not pulling away, he was looking John over very, very carefully. He was trying to decide if part of him did belong to John, or not. John bit his lip, because he would look at him, a fake and even if he weren't a pitiful mess besides, actively crying and shaking and already resigned to his own failure, and that was to say nothing of how broken he'd been before all of this even started. Sherlock would see him and he would decide that no, John did not get any part of him. He belonged to the original because the new version was full of bugs. And then Sherlock was kissing him and John released his lip from between his teeth and John still didn't know because this kiss could be “I'm sorry, goodbye” as much as it could be anything else. He shook his head, and broke off of the kiss. "Just tell me." He pleaded. If Sherlock didn't want him anymore he wanted to know about it.

Sherlock tried to kiss him once more, unable to stop himself. "Yours," He whispered against the other's lips. And it hurt, just as everything has hurt since the memories came back. But he loves the man in his arms right now, loves him enough that that hurts too in a different way, and he won't let go of him. John is not Watson, even if they are the same. But Sherlock still loves him, loves all of the differences even more. He's not even sure what his chest feels like right now, but if he had to liken it to anything he would say it must feel like how John's shoulder felt when the bullet dug in. He wants John with a startling intensity, and it's not just because he sees him as a replacement for Watson. He wants him just as much as he wanted him this morning, when he was waking up and eyeing John's nude body, or just as much as that night on the couch that ended up a disaster when John swallowed Sherlock's blood. Just as much as when John tenderly rubbed the aches from Sherlock's body after putting them there himself. He wanted. No, it had passed from a want to a need.

John was as startled by Sherlock's single word as he would have been by a punch in the gut. The wind was knocked out of him all the same. He wasn't expecting that anymore. He wasn't expecting Sherlock to tell him that any of him belonged to John. John needed too. He needed Sherlock to reaffirm him now, more than ever. John was important because he had Sherlock. That fact was enough for John to slowly rebuild himself. He's left speechless, thoughtless for long moments after Sherlock's declaration, and he pulled back now, feeling overwhelmed himself. He opens tear-blurry eyes to look at Sherlock, and since his brain can't seem to process it anymore, he couldn't think of anything more pertinent to say than the blatantly obvious. "You're beautiful." He tried to take a breath but choked on it. "Absolutely fucking beautiful. And it's like you don't even know." And he was John's. And oh, god, he was so fucking lucky, so fucking lucky. John didn't even know what he was supposed to do now. He'd had Sherlock before and that was good but it hadn't mattered then nearly as much as it did now.

Sherlock realized John might still not care that much about Sherlock himself, that now he was important to him as validation of his identity and thus really and truly needed, whereas before he wasn't, but he didn't care. This was unhealthy to the extreme. He didn't care. All he cared about was that John was his still, and it ached deep inside that he was so similar to Watson, but it wasn't so pressing right now. Later, when he was alone, he could examine his emotions and go over what all he was feeling in a proper and concise manner. Later he could completely break down if he needed to, could remember Watson and weep not only for his death but also for the marriage and the glamour. But all he wanted to do at the moment was kiss this wonderful man senseless until he believed that he was just as important as he'd been before Sherlock had woken up today. "You as well. Rather remarkable, remember?" He quoted with a wavering little smile.

On the contrary. It wasn't as though all of what John had felt for Sherlock just evaporated because now Sherlock let him feel like he existed for a reason. He wasn't using Sherlock to reaffirm his existence. Quite the opposite. After all, if a man could look you over at your lowest point and decide that you were worthy of him right after he'd lost his beloved all over again, well...Wasn't that enough of a reason to fall in love with someone? John thought so. But then, it wasn't like he had a choice. He couldn't come out of this ordeal not madly in love with Sherlock.  He also couldn't imagine himself ever asking Sherlock if it was just the bond and not really him ever again.  Sherlock's words made John's aching heart puff up a bit, warm. It didn't matter that Watson had probably been rather remarkable too. Sherlock knew he was a copy and still thought he was remarkable. John was willing to take another man's compliment, even if he knew it wasn't his. He tried to smile, but his was wavering too. "Shit." He said softly, before letting his head fall again to Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock was his. At least part of him. That was enough. Enough to make John so, so happy.

As he'd not said it, Sherlock had no way to know if John was legitimately in love with him or not. He was going to worry himself over this as well, nearly as much as John might worry Sherlock only loved him because of Watson. "Shit," He agreed in a soft, tentative voice, still rough from his earlier lapse of emotional control, "It is the middle of the day, and yet I just want to go back to sleep." His muscles still ached a bit, reminding him silently that, warm bath and rub down or not, yesterday had been excruciating. Sherlock stroked his fingers slowly through John's hair at the top of his neck. He was happy, but he was torn. He was in love, but he was still mourning. He wanted, but he didn't. Sherlock felt like the world’s biggest contradiction.

John's answer was to burrow his face warm into Sherlock's shoulder. John started to get his brain back online. He was exhausted himself, so he could only imagine how Sherlock must be feeling. "That can be arranged." John murmured softly into Sherlock's underarm. He sighed and then lifted his head back up to look at Sherlock, questioning. "Do you want me to come with you?" He asked, honestly not knowing the answer to the question. On the one hand, there was rational thought that said Sherlock really might not be up for it, might want some time alone to get his thoughts about Watson in order. On the other hand, there was that part of John that still didn't know if he was good enough for Sherlock to want him there with him.

Sherlock, once again, was torn. It was quickly becoming his base state. He wanted John with him there, wanted to be able to wrap his arms around him like they had been this morning before Mycroft's disastrous phone call. But he also wanted to carefully examine all of his emotions, and most likely break down like he could not do with an audience, like he had the last time, when Mycroft had honestly begun to suspect he might end his own life. Over-dramatic, yes, but it had seemed like the easier option back then. Watson would have killed him if he'd killed himself, though. His decision abruptly made by the tingling in his eyes, he shook his head jerkily. "No, I- If it is alright, I would like to be alone." He pressed a soft, tender kiss to John's lips, to try and impart his feelings. He was not rejecting him. He just needed time alone. "Give me an hour? And if you are as tired as I am, you're free to join me." He pressed another kiss to John's forehead.

John nodded, and that tender kiss was bittersweet. Of course. Sherlock didn't want him around, didn't want him in the same bed. John understood even if he wished fervently that it weren't the case. Perhaps John could earn it somehow. He wanted badly to be able to curl up with Sherlock too. Sherlock's words after the kiss were like a wonderful ray of hope. Sherlock just wanted time to himself. John hadn't been banished from Sherlock's bed, rather, he was just giving Sherlock some space for a while. "Yes, alright." He took a deep breath, trying to steady himself more. "I'm going to finish shaving. If you don't mind."

Sherlock tipped his head to the side. "Why would I mind?" He asked, a bit confused. What did it matter if Sherlock minded if John shaved? He shook his head a bit. It didn't matter. He stood from his seat on the couch, staring down at John for a long moment. He swooped down suddenly, to capture John's lips with his own. He could feel John trying to rally himself back to normal. Sherlock thought that maybe, if he could physically demonstrate that he did in fact still want him, the process would go smoother and faster. He wanted to help in any way possible. It was his fault John was feeling like this, of course.

John gave a nervous laugh. "I thought you might prefer it if I grew a mustache, that's all." He said, explaining his rationale. He'd prefer NOT to grow a mustache, but right now he was more interested in was doing what would make Sherlock happy. Even if he wasn't convinced he was inferior and needed to prove himself to Sherlock, he'd do it anyway, to make Sherlock feel better about losing his Watson. At this point, John was wishing more and more that he could fix Sherlock, help him feel better. It was his duty as a bondmate. John was beginning to remember his role as protector, as caregiver. His inferiority would not interfere with that. Sherlock's kiss this time was actually nice. It wasn't sad, and it wasn't bittersweet. It was just good, and Sherlock's lips were warm and reassuring.

Sherlock tensed up a bit. "No, no, I- Please don't. He...had one. That is why it was a bit of a shock, earlier." That would be too much. It would make it so much harder for him to separate the two of them. Sherlock took a deep breath. "I'll see you in an hour, yes?" He asked before squeezing John's shoulder once, tight, and leaving the room to go back to his bed. It didn't help as much as he'd thought it would. It was hard to sit in his bed and mourn Watson when the sheets and pillow smelled like John. He curled up, though, and sorted through all of the things he'd been forcing away; let himself relive the hurt, and the anger at Watson's marriage and his easy agreement to the glamour, then horror and sheer sorrow when he'd died all those years later. Startlingly, he didn't sob like he'd been expecting to. John's emotions kept intruding in to his own, and even though he never stopped to examine them, they were enough to remind him that he wasn't alone, now. He had someone still.

John had figured as much as that out. That's why he was offering. Perhaps little things, little reminders would help him feel better, feel more at home, feel like he wasn't so far from his John Watson after all. Or, it seemed, maybe not. John was struck for a moment by the sheer ridiculousness of it. He had no idea what Watson was like, and there was nothing he could do to be more or less like him. It would be a waste of time and energy, for both he and Sherlock. With his question, John could see Sherlock coming apart at the seams a little, and nodded when Sherlock left, letting him go to grab some alone time. John took some of his own, finishing his shaving, trying out a crossword in the paper, and resisting the urge to get well and truly sloshed. Heck. Maybe Sherlock would like to get sloshed together later?

Sherlock wallowed alone in his room for nearly an hour, just taking it all in. Near the end, though, he sat up and pressed heel of his hands in to his eyes and started working on building himself back up to normal. It took a while, but eventually he was as steady as normal, his breathing even again, even if his eyes were a bit red around the edges from stress and sadness. Several more breaths and he felt he'd be able to face John without wanting to drop to his knees and cling to him like some sort of octopus. Sherlock sighed and dropped his hands from his eyes, kicked his legs out in front of him, and relaxed against the headboard. He didn't know if John would want to join him now, but if he did, he was resolved not to be a bloody damn mess.

John gave Sherlock a little extra time, just ten minutes, but to be honest, the whole bloody time it was hell. John was trying to build himself back up too, but it was very, very hard to figure things out rationally, and even once he was calm he still felt like he was on the verge of panicking. It was understandable for a man whose whole life had to be re-evaluated. What was really idiotic and weak was that he was so focused on only one part of his life, and only for the last few days his relationship with Sherlock. Even when he pushed away that nagging at the back of his head that he said he wasn't god enough, he was inferior, John was still left with the unpleasant feeling that he was sharing his lover with a dead man. Who was almost exactly like him. John found himself hissing expletives to himself multiple times over the course of that hour, and hell if that crossword wasn't hopeless. Finally John could stand it no more and he pushed himself up, pulled a jumper over his head, and then quietly knocked at Sherlock's door.

Sherlock glanced up, relieved despite himself to hear John at his door. There was always the possibility that John had freaked and decided he'd like to forget all of this and run very, very far away. "You don't have to knock. Come in." He called, shifting over on the bed so that there would be room for two people. While he'd been struggling alone he'd tossed his trousers to the floor and unbuttoned the top two buttons on his shirt, rolling up his sleeves as well. Anything to feel a little bit comfortable. As such, when John stepped in to the room, it was to the site of a very disheveled Sherlock, looking nothing like he normally did, all pristine and put together. "Hello, again," He said, voice at least steadier than it had been the last time he'd tried to use it.

John stepped in. It wasn't so much that he didn't believe that he was allowed in Sherlock's bedroom as much as he was trying to preserve Sherlock's privacy. One good look at him let John know that Sherlock wasn't really looking to hide anything. The man was clearly a mess. John doubted that he looked much better. “How are you doing?” John asked, because the entire situation was incredibly awkward and he didn't know what else he could say. He did, however, come close enough to sit on the edge of the bed.

Sherlock lifted one shoulder in a tired little shrug. "Better." Because it was the truth. He was better than before. But that did not mean he was fine. Sherlock was certain that was apparent by his appearance, however. The war inside of him was temporarily put on hold. His need for John won out at the moment over his tumultuous emotions for Watson. He gestured awkwardly to the spot beside him, trying to tell John he'd like him closer without actually saying anything.

John swallowed and nodded before scooching over, up towards Sherlock's spot on the bed. "That's good to hear." He said, still feeling how forced the whole situation was. Sherlock looked put together, if only by the look on his face and not the disheveled rest of him. John doubted that he was actually okay, but hearing that he was better, no longer on the verge of shattering, was good news. John wished he could say the same for himself, but he only felt...Well, barely sane. Sick of not touching him anymore, John reached out and grabbed Sherlock's hand, taking some of his comfort for himself. “Did you want to talk about it?” He asked, and then gave a short, humorless laugh. “I'll listen, even if it's bloody weird.”

Sherlock gripped John's hand hard, hard enough to turn it red. He snorted, "No, but thank you." Sherlock slid closer, so that their shoulders were brushing and they could each feel the warmth from the other. "I know how uncomfortable that would be for you, John." He turned to look at the other man. Clearly Sherlock wasn't the only one who was feeling a bit insane. "And you? How are you feeling? I wish..." He swallowed around the lump that insisted on lodging itself in his throat. "I wish this hadn't happened to you. I wish you could have lived your life without meeting me, because then there might have been some semblance of normality." Sherlock glanced away. "But I'm selfish, and I am also so glad that we did meet. Even though I know how horrible this must be for you."

John gave a soft gasp as Sherlock’s grip on his hand tightened, and he squeezed right back. It felt perfect and right. John shivered at Sherlock's words. "Bite your tongue." He said, with acid in his tone. If John had lived his life without meeting Sherlock who knew where he would be right now? This pain was far worse than what he'd been feeling then, but at least now he had some direction, some meaning. Now he wasn't alone, and that was worth all of this terrible shit. "Don't even say that." He shook his head. "All of this is worth it." He took a deep breath, trying to steady himself and let it out.

John's words did not help at all. Sherlock still felt horrible for dragging this man in to all of this, regardless of the fact that it was obviously very carefully engineered. "Am I worth that much, John?" He asked in a small voice, in a moment of weakness. He was not one to usually need reassurances. But this recent turn of events was enough to push even Sherlock in to needing to hear certain things. He worried now, constantly, that any moment John would decide this was all too much and Sherlock would wake up to find John long gone. And Sherlock could find him, he could do it without even needing Mycroft's help. But he would let him go. Because John deserved whatever he wanted.

John took a deep breath, just trying to keep from flying off the handle again. Sherlock was worth it. That wasn't to say that this wasn't really bad. John could even imagine that if he was someone else, someone normal, some random person...No matter how much he loved Sherlock, he wasn't sure it was trade he would make. But John had needed Sherlock when they'd met, and he needed him even more now, and he was glad that Sherlock was there. Sherlock was the entire reason he was still breathing, even if now breathing hurt. So it didn't matter what it would be like if John were someone else, because he wasn't. He was John Watson 2.0 and he needed Sherlock Holmes just as much as he loved him, and that made all of this worth it. "Yeah." He replied, and he meant it. "You really, really are."

A little choked sound escaped from the back of Sherlock's throat before he could stop it. He wanted to just turn off his emotions for a while, forget everything that had happened. Sherlock thought longingly of his drugs yet again. He's been clean for so long, but the thought of oblivion was so, so enticing...He didn't want to feel. He didn't want to be constantly fighting with himself every time he looked at John. It shouldn't be this hard, but it was, and he didn't want to deal with it. Sherlock slid down the bed until he could lay on his belly, bury his face in the warm feel of the jumper at John's stomach, and wrapped his arms around John. It was an odd position, and he'd probably be uncomfortable soon. He didn't care. Sherlock couldn't stand looking John in the eye at the moment, but he still needed to hold on to him right now.

John bit his lip, wondering what he could have said to make Sherlock react so poorly.  Sherlock was worth it. How could the simple truth have damaged Sherlock so much? All John could do was shift a bit to make them comfortable in this new position, and reach a bit to touch Sherlock all that he could. In this position it was difficult, but he still managed to get one of his hands thoroughly tangled in Sherlock's hair, and the other gently stroking the nape of his neck. He let Sherlock stay like that for a while, coping in whatever way he could with whatever it was he was feeling. John wished he knew, so he could help. Finally, he spoke up, clearing his throat. "I meant it. I said that I'd listen and I will. Don't worry if it will make me uncomfortable, that doesn't matter. It doesn't matter that he was me or that I am sort of him or whatever the situation is..." John swallowed. It was difficult to talk about. "It matters that I'm your mate and it's my job to take care of you, and I take that job very seriously. You should talk it out. I wouldn't have offered if I didn't want to do it, if I wasn't prepared for it to be strange." He ruffled Sherlock's hair back gently, like one would petting a cat. "I mean it, Sherlock. Whatever I can do for you. It's important."

          Sherlock tilted his head back so that he could finally glance up at John's face. There was only a momentary flash of overlap this time, which was better than before, where it disoriented him completely. "You're so very good, John. It astounds me time and again." He murmured against the wool of John's jumper. His eyelids drooped in pleasure at the hand in his hair. "You are a wonderful mate. But...I do not know what to talk about. And I don't want to cause you discomfort, as I said. It's best if I say nothing, then." He honestly didn't know what he could say. Describing Watson would hurt too much. As would talking about losing him, or about anything else from that period. A part of Sherlock just wanted to tuck it all away and move on with his life, as Watson had done with Mary.

John wondered briefly if Sherlock was talking just about him, or about John Watsons in general. Either way, it was not his words but the reverence in his voice that told John just how much he meant it. John shook his head carefully. "Don't worry about causing me discomfort, I already told you." He chewed on his lower lip a bit. "I'm going to be uncomfortable for a while, no matter what you tell me." He gave a little laugh. "I just found out that I'm a clone, after all." Even the laugh sounded uncomfortable. "You should tell me what you want to get off your chest." He continued to idly play with the soft curly strands on Sherlock's head. "Don't hold anything back, darling. Even if you think it's bad or it hurts."

Sherlock gave a soft little laugh, one that wasn't as uncomfortable as John's, but still not just right. "Darling. That is something he never called me. 'My dear' was used, but that was just the way one talked back then." Sherlock's eyes got a bit distant, like he was watching days long since passed in his mind. To contradict that his arms tightened on the man in front of him. "And the hair," He said after a moment, coming back to himself. "You seem to have a preoccupation with it that he did not have." Sherlock made a pleased little noise. "Your overall manner is more...forceful, I suppose. You're not just a clone, John." He dropped his head back to John's stomach. Even while trying to talk about this, he seemed to be twisting it in to reassurances for John. Rambling on without a fixed topic seemed to be how he was going to go about this. Anything off of the top of his head. Sherlock didn't think he could handle speaking of the deeper things.

John made a small hmmm noise. It wasn't clear if it helped to know that he was not a perfect match, or hurt, because he was different and that clearly said "worse".  He wasn't quite sure himself. "I call you darling because you are.  You're special, one-of a kind, you're... Precious. To me, I mean." He elaborated to Sherlock exactly what his reasoning was. "Your hair it gorgeous. Was it as long then as it is now? And...forceful? I suppose that's a good thing, with a life like this." He sighed softly. "What am I? Maybe I'm not the same person, but you have to admit.... How can I be anything BUT a clone?'

Sherlock lifted himself up so that he could press his lips to John's forehead, his cheeks, then finally his lips. He'd felt John's emotions, and his deducing skills were up to task enough for him to realize John thought he was 'worse'. "You are not," He corrected gently, "Any worse for your differences. You are better." He dropped down beside him on his back, somehow managing to make the motion look elegant and not like a childish flop. "My hair was never this long then. I wore it short and slicked back, actually." Sherlock considered John's question while taking a hand in his own again. "I don't know. Perhaps you're a reincarnation? But that's...That would require...dark things. And a twisted individual to orchestrate all the events to be similar. And why would anyone go through the trouble to do that? It wouldn't be easy." There really were not quite a lot of options.

John didn't really hear most of what Sherlock said. He was still stuck on the very first thing. Sherlock said he was better. Better than the other Watson. The man whose death hurt so much that Sherlock made himself forget _everything_ just so he didn't have to live with the pain anymore.  John felt like his heart had stopped, his chest ached so much. "What?" He asked, whipping his head around to stare at Sherlock, dumbfounded. What he said didn't make any sense. Better? John's voice was choked when he continued speaking. "But...You loved him." And clearly Sherlock had done so much more than love him, but it was all John could think about.

"What?" Sherlock asked, slightly confused, before he realized what he'd said. His body tensed up in shock. He hadn't even thought about what he was saying, when he'd said that, hadn't considered how John would take it or how he himself even really meant it. It had just slipped out, unconsciously. Did he mean that? For one dizzying moment he thought he might pass out from the shock of realizing that he just might. Watson had broken his heart, not once but twice, first with his engagement and then with his easy acceptance of the glamour. It had drastically damaged how he saw the man, how he regarded him, and he still loved him, of course he did, but one of the reasons he'd taken all of his own memories and shoved them away was because he'd started to hate what Watson had done to him, and he couldn't deal with that. He was remembering all of that right now; the anger mixed with the derision coated in an unhealthy amount of love. But John was here, and he was different in crucial ways, and he hadn't yet left Sherlock or asked him to take his memories of them. "I did. I do," He choked out. His head hurt. Jesus, he thought, how many times can a person suffer through complete emotional upset in a day? "But I love you as well." Sherlock didn't know how to explain what he was thinking and feeling in a coherent manner. It was...too much. Just. Too much.

John just kept staring at him. He couldn't believe his ears. He was better than Watson? As in, Sherlock legitimately thought he was better? He chewed on his lower lip some more, unsure of how it could be true. He wasn't the original, after all, and Sherlock hadn't love him so much that he'd- Well. Sherlock said he loved him too. John swallowed. He knew Sherlock probably wouldn't want to answer his question that it was probably private, but...John couldn't help himself. He couldn't believe it until it was explained to him. "How?" He asked, confused, his lack of understanding clear.

Sherlock shook his head, the motion slow and confused. He wished his head would stop throbbing. Thinking of this has given him a headache. "I can't explain my feelings, John. Emotions aren't logical. They can't be rationally examined and dissected and explained." It wasn't just that he didn't want to explain this, he simply couldn't. Discussing emotions was as alien a thing to him as vampire customs would be to John. "You've never hurt me, John, or left me." The 'yet' was loud and clear in his tone. It made sense now, his previous belief that John would leave him before long. Watson had. Why shouldn't John? Give him time, Sherlock thought bitterly. "I need you," He said aloud, and oh, that hurt to admit. His pride was a dead burnt out husk by now.

John didn't take advantage of that. He didn't take the opportunity to crush Sherlock's pride even more. He just swallowed nervously and nodded. "Yeah. Me too." He needed Sherlock more than Sherlock could know. John accepted that Sherlock wouldn't give him an explanation, but just as he was resigning himself to not ever understanding, Sherlock told him. John hadn't hurt him like Watson had. John felt himself buck up a bit at this. He felt himself get some resolve. "I won't leave you, Sherlock." He said, and for this at least, his voice had strength in it. "I'm not going anywhere. Not unless I'm taking you with me."

Sherlock's lips lifted in a feeble attempt at a smile. "Good. I came very, very close to losing myself last time." His arm came up unconsciously to rest at the crook of one bared elbow, his thumb rubbing little circles in to the skin there, remembering how long he'd spent coked out on the streets, depressed and lost without knowing why he was feeling like that. Several years ago when he had been in the same position hadn't been the first time, then; it was a relapse, without him even realizing it.

It was such a defensive gesture, grabbing one’s own arm. It was like hugging yourself. Even with Sherlock this emotionally blown out, John saw the gesture as extremely out of place. He followed the line of Sherlock's pale skin. Sherlock was rubbing the inside of his elbow. John bit his lips again, this time at the realization that he was in bed with an addict. Or an ex-addict, hopefully. John wasn't about to let Sherlock relapse. Not after all of this. All he'd do after this was find more and more reasons to chase himself away from real life. "Any time you feel like losing yourself again, you come to me, Sherlock." He said, and there was a hard edge to his voice. John was trained well enough to know how to treat a junkie.

Sherlock glanced up in surprise, and his hand dropped immediately from his elbow. He'd responded instantly to that hard note in John's voice. There had been something of the soldier in it.  Sherlock's mind involuntarily flashed back to John that night on the couch, when he had been dominating Sherlock so that he could top, and he felt a flutter of warmth in his belly. He was certainly not in the mood for anything like that, but it was very...interesting. "Of course," He promised softly. As he had noted earlier, he wasn't alone now. John would help him stay away from the things he'd sworn to give up for his own good. They were too enticing to a person like him. They'd swallow him whole eventually. Sherlock took in John's worried expression, the bit lip. "I'm clean," He added, in case that might sooth John's mind.

John had already known that, though. He'd have known before, if Sherlock was a junkie. He was a doctor, after all.  "Good." was all he said in response, and gave quite the sigh as he relaxed back and closed his eyes.  If he caught Sherlock with drugs like that again, he had ways to punish him- As soon as John thought of it, he hated himself for thinking it. He wouldn't put Sherlock through that again unless it was life or death, no matter how upset he was. "Stay that way." He ended up saying. He scooched back up against the headboard, and then turned his head to look at Sherlock. He took one hand, and pushed Sherlock's hair back, to see his face, as it would look without the curls. John's breath caught in his throat.  Sherlock looked just as good with slicked back hair as he did with generous curls all over the place. It was just a very different kind of good. "Damn."

Sherlock's lips pulled up in a genuine smile, though this was a bit closer to a smirk. "Do you find me that aesthetically pleasing, John?" He teased. It felt good, to joke, to lighten the mood. Everything was still raw, but there was only so much wallowing in sorrow a person could do. Sherlock slid his hands through his hair, pushed it back in a way so that when he put his hands back in his lap the curls lay as flat and tame as possible without any sort of gel. With the hair no longer dropping over and covering his forehead, it made his face seem even more angular, made the cheekbones stick out even more. He looked older without the boyish curls springing everywhere.

And suddenly John felt his age. He felt how very young he was in comparison. Sherlock was hundreds of years old, and there, without his adorable hairstyle painting a picture of youth, John could see it. It wasn't as though Sherlock looked ancient or decrepit or elderly, but he did look...Aged. He looked....Classical, even. Was this the Sherlock that Watson had seen? All exquisite and looking quite like he knew everything? Like he was some sort of Victorian aristocrat? God, but it was sexy. John swallowed, because his mouth had become dry, and shook his head. "You have no idea." He responded simply.

Sherlock laughed, a throaty noise. "But I do. I can feel it." He raised a single eyebrow and ticked his head up, pursing his lips slightly, furthering that aristocratic, snooty look. This was entertaining. "Perhaps I should buy some hair gel. Shock the idiots at the Yard by changing my style." He suggested. He wouldn't really. The gel was too much work, as was getting the hair to lie just right, and washing it all out at night. The way he had it now was so much simpler, and he was thankful that this generation was one that didn't have an issue with a man having longer hair and women having it shorter. But it was fun to tease John like this.

And then instantly, John was put off of it, and Sherlock could feel it. "Don't. Leave it the way it is." That look on Sherlock was outrageously appealing, but John knew that he would miss Sherlock's hair the way it was now. He'd miss putting his fingers through it. And he'd miss being different than Watson, because like Sherlock said...And John still didn't quite believe him...He was better. The thought still made him frown and sent butterflies through his stomach. Sharp ones. John took to thinking about it as he let the fingers of one hand come down and brush over the features of Sherlock's beautiful, snooty face. Fingertips over eyebrows, nose, chin. "Hard to believe you're actually mine." John commented.

Sherlock's face lost its hard lines, smoothing out under John's fingertips. He blinked slightly at the sudden change in feeling he got. He ran a single hand through his hair, disheveling the slick look and causing the curls to bounce back in to their usual place - which is to say, everywhere. He didn't understand John's sudden change in regards to the look, but it was no large matter to him. It was just a style. Sherlock reached out to John's unoccupied hand and twined their fingers together. "Yours," He said firmly. His voice no longer had the posh accent to it he'd adopted a moment ago. "Forever, if you would want me that long."

John closed his eyes tight at his words. Not just at the reaffirmation that Sherlock was indeed his, the confirmation of it, but that Sherlock wanted to be his forever. John wasn't sure he could make that happen.  He swallowed, suddenly filled with dread. "I am only human Sherlock. I am mortal." he said gently. He suddenly felt terrible, because he knew then that he would leave Sherlock just as Watson did, because he couldn't help it. One day he would grow old, or sick, or both. It was completely out of his power to change. The difference was that John wouldn't reject Sherlock or tire of him or find someone else. It was ridiculous to know so after so short a time, but John did know, for sure.

Sherlock returned the careful glide of fingertips over John's face with a pained smile. "Forever, John. Even if you are not here to see it." He wasn't stupid. Far from it, in fact. He knew that one day John would die. But Sherlock would still be his, forever, as long as Sherlock lived. And his kind lived for a very, very long time. Long enough that it might as well be forever. But who knows, perhaps he'd meet his match some day and his already long existence would end. Sherlock drew away so that he could relax in the bed more. If he didn't, he might end up snogging John senseless, and despite how much he wanted to, it just wasn't the time for such things.

John sighed softly. "You would go on forever like that, even if I wasn't around?" He asked. "I only have sixty more years in me, at a stretch, and you've already missed the glory days." He said, feeling that Sherlock needed to be warned of such a thing. John...His feelings for Sherlock were intense. He'd give his life for him. But he wouldn't give up his humanity. He swallowed. "I wouldn't be upset. If you found others after me. Sexual, romantic.... And the bond ends when I die, correct?" He felt a pang of pain in his chest. Sherlock had already had one bond end by death, didn’t he? Watson had had that as well. "If it's after I'm gone, it's okay." He said, and meant it, even if the idea of it hurt. He chewed on his lip. "Maybe try not to make it John Watson next time, though."

It hurt, a bit, that John was encouraging him to find others after he was gone. He could say, without a doubt, that he would not want anyone else. Unless he deleted his memories again, and that was just not going to happen. "Don't be an idiot, John, it doesn't suit you." Sherlock Holmes, king of backhanded compliments. "Do you really believe I will be content to find another? Even without the bond. I will not want anyone else. Romantically, most definitely. Sexually...Sex is sex, it does not have to mean anything. But if I find it distasteful," He smirked a bit. "My right hand served before and I am certain it will again."

John frowned. The insult/compliment hybrid was unexpected. John shook his head. "Sherlock, it's hundreds, maybe even thousands of years. I'll be gone in the blink of an eye and you'll have a life to live." John huffed. It was Sherlock who was being an idiot. "I'm not saying to go out and find yourself a bride on the way back from my funeral. I'm saying....If someone else ever comes along, I.... It's alright. To love them too." Even to love them more than he loved John, the way he loved John more than Watson. John could live his life being Sherlock's number one...And then anyone who took his place deserved the same privilege. 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Statistically, it is highly unlikely that I will find anyone else quite like you. Sixty years, several hundred. It doesn't matter." Sherlock stretched out on the bed, his hands interlocked above his head, his whole body rippling. He honestly could not see himself coming to love anyone else, even many years in to the future. He was done. Sherlock would most definitely not go out looking for anyone, and it was unlikely that he would happen along someone like John again, someone who tolerated his acid tongue, his violin playing at four in the morning, the heads in the fridge, and the morbid fascination with crime scenes and the psyche of murderers. It'd already happened twice, even if the second time was arranged. "Shall we agree to disagree?" Sherlock asked lightly. He was feeling better than he had in a while. Perhaps occasionally going through emotional upheaval was good for the soul.

John didn't like how flippant Sherlock was about it. "Wherever I am at the time, if it's like 5,000 years in the future and you meet someone wonderful I'm going to be bloody angry if you keep away from them for my sake." He said, firmly letting his position be known. "That's all I'm saying. I don't care about the statistics." He didn't want Sherlock to be lonely when he didn't have to be. Sherlock had already spent so much time alone, without anyone to care for him. John prayed that whoever he found in the future was immortal, so they could love him properly, forever, the way they should. 

Sherlock sighed and looked up at John from his flat position on the bed. "Yes. Alright. I understand your point. I just...don't see it happening, is all." He rolled so that he could try and drag John down to lay with him. "If it does not happen, I will cope with the memories." And he would have to. He would never, ever attempt to turn John in to an immortal without his express permission, and Sherlock knew he would never get that. John was so human. It would pain Sherlock to take that away from him. He wasn't sure he'd do it even if John wanted it to happen.

Which was lucky, because John would never GIVE him permission. John was having trouble coping with his human life right now, let alone an immortal one. John also didn't think he could stomach needing to drink blood to survive, no matter what situation he was able to get it in. John allowed himself to be pulled down by Sherlock, by which point he had decided that he wasn't actually angry at him. "Alright." He said, since now he knew Sherlock understood what he was saying and would let it drop. He also curled straight into Sherlock's arms, pressing his face into Sherlock's neck and simply allowing himself to breathe deeply of Sherlock's smell. His Sherlock. His Sherlock who thought he was better. John couldn't help the rippling shudder of pleasure that went through him at those thoughts, and he found he wanted to reward Sherlock for being so wonderful or treat him or let him know he was special in some way. But Sherlock didn't like gifts. John felt like he was at an impasse.

Sherlock tensed up at John's face pressing against his sensitive neck, but after a moment he relaxed again. He felt John's shudder and tightened his arms around John's body, one hand idly tracing up and down John's spine. The contact probably wouldn't even really be felt through clothing, but it soothed Sherlock anyway. Sherlock didn't want any of John's gifts, or anything else he could give him, because to Sherlock John being here with him was enough. He didn't need anything else. Just John. Sherlock took a deep breath, exhaled, watched it ruffle the hair on John's head. "Quite a day." He remarked in to the silence. The worry was still there, and the anger and self-loathing, but all he wanted to do right now was relax with John in his arms.

That was the thing about gifts, though, they weren't supposed to be enough. They were supposed to be more than enough. Delightful extras. John felt a quick pang of anxiety as he realized that he had a very good gift he could give to Sherlock just now. "Yeah. Better together than alone, though...right?" He asked, pushing himself up and looking down at Sherlock. He just stared at him for a while looking him in the eyes. There was no reason not to let Sherlock know about this, no reason to keep it from him, and now...John felt like he could finally say it. The terrible circumstances had convinced him that it was true, once and for all. Still, there was a certain amount of anxiety with a confession of this caliber, especially after such a day. John hesitated, letting his eyes fall shut.

Sherlock tilted his head to the side and looked up at John, trying to understand what John was thinking from the emotions he was giving off. "Much better together," He answered. Sherlock lifted a hand to gently cup the side of John's face. He admired the contrast in their skin tones for a moment, while he waited for whatever it seemed John wanted to say. Despite what some of the Yard members seemed to think, he was not a mind reader, and there was not enough information for him to deduce what John was anxious about.

Sherlock's hand on his face reassured him, and John drew from it the courage that he needed. His lips drew into a little, appreciative smile, and his eyes slid back open, containing all the warmth and affection that he had developed for Sherlock. This was not so hard. This was just stating what was already true. And it was exactly what they both wanted. There was no need to get so nervous about something so good, and so simple. John drew his hand over Sherlock's, pressing the warm palm of it into his cheek. "I love you." He said, keeping it short, sweet, and classic, very much like John himself.

Sherlock's breath caught in his throat. He froze, body tensing up again with his surprise. But that might send the wrong message to John, so he forced his body back in to its lax state. "Say it again," He begged, half in disbelief and half in desperation. It's been so very, very long since he's heard those words, and he was responding like a starved man. Sherlock's chest felt like it might explode. He withdrew his hand and executed a maneuver to reverse their positions, putting John flat on his back and Sherlock looming over him, his knees bracketing John's legs and both of his hands holding John's face tenderly between them, like he was glass, like he was precious.

And that approval was all John needed, even if he'd known from the start that Sherlock would give it. It made him feel warm inside, and he couldn't stop when his fond smile grew into a grin, just as Sherlock flipped him over. At this rate he almost felt like he was goading Sherlock, like he was egging him on, trying to convince him to show John exactly how much Sherlock liked him saying it. Staring directly up at him and meaning every syllable, he repeated himself. "I'm in love with you, Sherlock. I love you."

Sherlock made a noise that would probably be defined as a sob at John repeating himself. He was overreacting. Was he overreacting? Oh, sod it, who cared? His feelings were returned, Sherlock believed he was allowed to act a bit irrational. He could quite literally feel John's love at the moment, and it was a warm, curling, pleased thing that took up residence in his chest and silently said it would not be leaving any time soon. One hand slipped back to cradle John's neck while he placed achingly tender kisses to his cheeks, his jaw, his forehead, anywhere he could, really.

John laughed, then, not a demeaning sound meant to let Sherlock know just how silly he was being, but a light, lovely expression of joy. John reached up himself, curling both hands in Sherlock's hair, and he giggled, actually giggled, before asking Sherlock "What the bloody hell do you think you're doing?" and maneuvering Sherlock's lips to his own. It was silly to avoid it at this point. He wanted to kiss Sherlock and that's all there was to it. He wanted to tell Sherlock physically, as well as emotionally. Their kiss was long and glorious and passionate without being too soft, each of them coming back to each other the moment it seemed like they might pull away, because it was just too good to end. Sherlock's reaction to this was wonderful, and his happiness was exactly what John had hoped to inspire.

Sherlock couldn't stop himself from smiling in to the kiss, interrupting it over and over again so that he could give breathy little laughs against John's skin, but never quite ending it. He couldn't pull away more than an inch. It was as if he was magnetically drawn to John's mouth. He kissed John like it was the first time, and in a way it was; the first kiss where they were both on the same emotional level. Finally, when air became an issue and he was feeling a bit dizzy, he drew away, grinning down at John with one of the most open expressions Sherlock thinks he's ever had on his face.

John just marveled at that look for a while, watching Sherlock rock slightly with the force of his breath. He let his arms fall, instead wrapping languidly around Sherlock’s shoulders, lazily crossing over each other at the forearm. "I thought you should know. Thought you'd like to hear it." He said. He didn't tell Sherlock he'd meant it as a gift, because that might devalue it, but it was the truth. It had made Sherlock happy, too, so it completely counted. Instead of telling him that, John let his own grin fade down into something small and tired and pleased. "Thank you, Sherlock."

Sherlock dropped his head down to nuzzle at John's neck and throat, placing kisses there every now and then. "I did. Like to hear it, that is. But that is obvious." Sherlock shifted some so that he could brace most of his weight on his elbows, but still lay his body over top of John's and have John feel it. If this was a gift, then Sherlock would suddenly understand why John liked that gun Sherlock gave him so much. It was more about the emotional value than anything. Words were just words without meaning behind them. Much like how he viewed sex. "Shouldn't I be the one saying thank you, John?" He asked seriously.

John gave another little laugh. They were infectious today, even when they were speaking seriously. "Not this time." John said. "Don't steal my thunder." This gratitude was John's, this time. John couldn't count all the things he wanted to thank Sherlock for. There was any number of little bits and pieces about Sherlock or things that he had done that he was thankful for. Saving his life, chasing away his nightmares, letting him fawn over his hair.  But none of that really got to the crux of the issue. "Thank you for choosing me." John said finally. As a flatmate, as a friend and a colleague, and as a bondmate.

Sherlock did not say it out loud, but the only thing he could think in response to that was, how could I not? Jon was everything he needed without Sherlock even knowing he'd wanted it. A partner, a friend, someone who did not look at him in disgust or hatred for his deductions...This was all really quite inevitable for Sherlock. John was perfect. Even his negative aspects were perfect. "You're welcome," is all he said out loud. Sherlock may have saved John's life, but the opposite was true as well. Life had been so dull, so boring before John. There was every chance he might have decided to turn back to the drugs just for a change, and he might have overdosed. John saved him as much as Sherlock saved John.

Having Sherlock laid so completely on top of him made him relax completely. He pulled Sherlock closer, hugging him tightly around the shoulders. "I'm very, very glad that I met you. Even with all of this confusion and pain." This was worth it, because just like his nightmares, Sherlock could protect him from this. From whoever was fucked up enough to make this happen, and powerful enough to do it right. John was, after all, perfect. A functioning human being in every way, save a few kinks in the wiring. He was John Watson, even if there were some factors that could not be reproduced. Shifting the subject, John asked softly, "How could this happen? Who could have done this? Does Mycroft know?" Now it was time to get down to business.

Sherlock exhaled, feeling as if he was pushing out all of his anxiety and worry and hurt and confusion and sadness with the air in his lungs. "I'm very glad that I met you as well, John," He murmured against warm skin, his lips tickling as they brushed up and down with his words. "Who knows where I might have ended up without you." And just when he was finally relaxing, his previous emotions came back at John's next words. "I don't know," He answered, and oh how he hated having to use that phrase, hated not knowing serious things with an all-consuming passion. "Mycroft has no idea. I said before, that is frightening, because it is quite literally Mycroft's job to know everything." Sherlock’s frowned, his brows pulling down in to a hard crease. "I'm going to find out, though. I promise you that. If it's the last thing I do, I'm going to find who did this and get the answers I want. One way or another." His voice was dark with threat.

One of John's hands slipped down over Sherlock's back and began to rub him there, trying to calm him out of his murderous mood. He wanted answers as much as, if not more than Sherlock did, but he didn't want Sherlock to think that torture was an applicable way to get them. John wanted to know why anyone would decide to bring John Watson back from the dead, and what their motivation was for recreating his life so perfectly. "Do you think it has to do with you? Why they recreated Watson? Perhaps it's meant to be a message or a sign for you... Maybe even a gift." He sighed and let his eyes slide closed. "Whatever it is, we have a new case."

Sherlock hummed under his breath and shifted his shoulders under John's hand, trying to shove off his dark mood. "I just don't know. And that bothers me." He'd mentioned it before, but to him, his intelligence was what set him above the teeming mass of others. It was his identity. Not knowing what was going on was like a constant thorn in his side, and he loathed it. "But whoever did this, and for whatever reason, I do find myself thankful to them." He reared back enough to look John in the eye. "I would not have you, otherwise."

John huffed. "Please don’t thank them, though." He said with a little shiver. "That would be rather cheesy, wouldn't it?" He shook his head. "It bothers me too." John wasn't worried about getting revenge, not yet. He didn't have any interest in revenge, at least not right now. He just wanted answers. "I don't know if I should be thankful or not. I guess it would depend on their purpose." John knew it couldn't have been anything good, and it gave him a hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach.

Sherlock tightened his arms, trying his best to physically dispel that feeling he was getting from John. "Either way, we will find out what's going on in the end." He put a slight emphasis on the 'we', making sure John knew he was always included. There was no just Sherlock anymore. It was Sherlock and John. He pressed his face in to John's chest, hiding the stupid little smile that curled his lips as he thought that.

John heard the 'we' there too, and it was as reassuring as Sherlock's tightened grip. Yes, they would be working together. The thought that he had Sherlock on his side gave him an immense amount of confidence. Sherlock was quick and strong and a bloody genius. There was nobody John would rather have by his side in this.  John also had the feeling that Sherlock would hunt whoever it was down with a personal kind of determination. "I sure hope so, Sherlock. I..." He shook his head. How to explain? "This is my life. This is my whole _life_. My growing up and my going to war and my meeting you...Someone else did all of this before, and so much of what I've done, that I thought was my own doing, was really chosen for me. And everything I do in the future might be as well. I might be particularly predisposed to repeat the life of another man, even if I know and try to stop it. I need to know why."

And suddenly the dread was back for Sherlock, as intense as before. For all they knew, John might indeed be predisposed to repeat Watson's life. Which meant that somewhere, there was a woman waiting to woo John's heart away from Sherlock. Sometime in the future John might find another Mary, another woman who could offer him things Sherlock couldn't, wouldn't be able to. Sherlock drew back from John, his muscles tensing up as his mind raced with all the things that could happen and go wrong. He didn't know if he could take going through that again. Would John ask him to box up his memories, just like Watson? Would he like to forget all about their time together? Who could be so cruel to give him this, only to have the threat hanging that it would be taken away again...

It wasn't a large jump for John to figure out what has Sherlock so upset. What he'd said and what John knew of Sherlock’s relationship with Watson put the puzzle pieces together, really.  When John felt Sherlock pull away with him, his own muscled tensed with resolution as his face and voice became hard. This was one thing he would not allow Sherlock to be worried about. Especially not for so long. John could reassure him about this, as least. "I'm not going ANYWHERE, Sherlock. I'm not going to meet a woman and I'm not going to ask you to glamour me-" He shivered, obviously finding the idea distasteful. John hated glamours. "I'm YOUR mate. End of story." Otherwise...Anything else Watson might have done...John might do it all.

Sherlock gave a little shake of the head, not so much disagreeing but just denying what John said. "You say that now, John, but you cannot say for certain. Love is a fickle thing. There is no guarantee that you won't find some lovely woman some day and decide that I am not worth all of the trouble." Sherlock's voice was calm and unwavering, but that was only from years of practice at acting parts to get what he wanted. Inside he was a seething mass of pure worry and anxiety. He didn't want John to leave him in the end, but more than that he didn't want to glamour John in to forgetting that he'd once loved Sherlock. Sherlock quite honestly could not withstand doing that again.

John actually growled in response. "No, Sherlock, you don't understand. I can say it for certain, and it has nothing to do with love." Oh, he had no doubt that his love would last, but in theory Sherlock was right. Love was strong but it was...bendable. Changeable. John knew for sure that he wasn't going anywhere because he was an addict. He needed Sherlock's excitement, would always need it, even if he was old and gray and could only experience the cases and the adventures when Sherlock told him about them at home in an armchair almost as worn as himself. He also needed the safety Sherlock provided. Part of the reason he'd smuggled his gun back with him was paranoia. Being able to sleep halfway decently was such a relief and feeling like there was someone looking out for him was even better. And John needed the reassurance that he was loved, as weak as that seemed. He'd been alone in the world, for those months. A friendly acquaintance, a patient, an annoying brother, but not truly important to anyone. He needed the reassurance of Sherlock's obsessive love. Reassurance that he was worthwhile. That he wasn't alone.  And all of that said nothing about his new feelings about the true nature of his existence. All of this wasn't pretty, none of it was, and he didn't want to tell Sherlock any of it... But he did have to explain to Sherlock somehow why he wouldn't go anywhere. "When you met the other John Watson, he didn't need a person like you as desperately as I do." There was a feeling accompanying the words. A little bit of self-loathing, like needing Sherlock was bad, dirty, and that he was a disappointment to himself. "And believe me... I need you." I need you so fucking much, Sherlock, John wanted to scream, but he didn't. He just repeated himself so Sherlock knew how very serious he was. "I'm not going to leave you. Ever."

Sherlock closed his eyes. He knew all about John's addiction to danger, he had it himself, didn't he? But Watson had had it as well, plus that little gambling problem, and he'd left. But John was different from Watson. He was more desperate. Sherlock could feel that coming off of him in waves of self-loathing. He wanted to make it better, but knew he couldn't. Nothing he could do would make John feel any better. He could only love him, like he had been doing. "I need you as well," He repeated back to John in a half broken little whisper. They were both sort of broken, weren't they, but their jagged pieces fit together to form a facsimile of a whole.  He needed John to hold on to his sanity nearly as much as John needed him to hold on to his identity. There was no telling where the both of them might have ended up without the other. Might Sherlock have overdosed one day, while John put his illegal gun to his head and pulled the trigger? They were broken, yes, but in such a way as they could continue together. Out loud he continued, "I need you so much, John, that it frightens me." He didn't relax back in to his position on top of John, though, stayed pulled back and resting more on his elbows.

John turned his head fully to just look at Sherlock for a while. They were no longer touching, and that seemed wrong but appropriate all at once. John decided on a touch that was gentle and small, but intimate just the same.  A single tanned, calloused hand reached up and rested on the back of Sherlock's neck, thumb gently rubbing back and forth over his nape. "Don't be frightened, Sherlock." He said softly. "You have me. You'll always have me, as long as I live, so there's really nothing to be afraid of." John stared up at him for a while, his eyes so very tired but also very true. John was sure that Sherlock had nothing to worry about, in that department, and he was trying to be reassuring. It was okay for Sherlock to need him, no matter how much, because he would always be there.

Sherlock broke under that small little touch, warm on his neck, and dropped his body back down to John, with his head pillowed on John's chest, directly over his heart. He was quiet for several long moments, just listening to that strong heart beat and the sound of John's breath wooshing in his lungs. "I love you," He said, quietly, simply because it seemed appropriate. It might not even have been loud enough for John to hear. It was just to fortify Sherlock himself. He had a strange feeling that things were going to get complicated soon, and he would need all the strength he could get.

The room was quiet, though, and John wasn't deafened by his own heartbeat. He heard Sherlock's words perfectly, and they made him feel stronger, too. "And I love you." He responded back, and pointedly did not continue on after that with 'for what it's worth', because he knew that it was worth far more to Sherlock than it was to John. The doctor didn't have that sense of foreboding that Sherlock seemed to, but he felt the need for strength now all the same. They were stronger together than apart. Having Sherlock back on top of him, no longer held at bay by emotional upset, was plenty of strength in and of itself. John kept his hand where it was, kept his thumb moving in reassuring little circles.

Sherlock wiggled a bit until he was comfortable on top of John, then allowed his tired body to go completely lax. If he was too heavy for John, he trusted him to say something about it. The thumb stroking along his neck and the steady, strong thrum of John's heart was so completely soothing that he found himself drifting off in to a light doze. Because of the drama of the day he had almost forgotten that his body felt like it had been tortured yesterday, and that even though he'd gotten enough sleep for a normal person (which is to say, far more than he usually got), he was still tired. Sherlock, having grown up with fellow vampires, never could fall asleep in the presence of others. Only idiots did such things. You could never trust anyone completely. The clan was like a hive of cobras, fangs sheathed but liable to strike out at any moment if they perceived weakness. But even from that first night he didn't seem to have any trouble letting his guard down to sleep in front of John. In fact, the past few nights have graced him with the best sleep he has gotten in a very long while, and it was because of John's body in the bed.

Sherlock wasn't too heavy, not like this. John had carried Sherlock, and knew just how heavy he could be, but most of his heaviness was from his sinfully long legs. For all the weight that his upper body had, Sherlock wasn't any heavier than any of the ladies he'd slept with like this. John wasn't aware of Sherlock's difficulty sleeping around other vampires, but if he'd known that he allowed Sherlock to feel safe enough to fall asleep with him, the idea would have warmed him quite a bit. It didn't take long for John to follow him into sleep, but it took him even less time to be woken up that morning by Sherlock's phone chiming with yet another text message, this time from a blocked number.

_Hey there, Sexy. I see you've finally figured out Johnny Boy's little secret. I would have thought it would take a genius like you less time. Four days, Sherlock? Please._

Then, a few moments later, a second text, this time from a traceable number.

_The game is on._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Taylor: You can't fall in love with someone in three days, Sherlock.  
> Taylor: ):  
> Aley: HE JUST WANTS LOVE, DAMN IT.  
> Taylor: But you can fall in love with someone in four days if they save your life twice, are very handsome, you have awesome foreplay together, and they validate your existence because your entire life has been orchestrated for you to be the clone of their former lover.
> 
> So says the other writer of this story. SO VERY ACCURATE.
> 
> And now we start with the MORIPARTY! We're reaching the climax, ladies and gentlemen :3


	20. Chapter 20

Sherlock roused himself at the text tone, both eyes cracking open and staring dazedly at John's chest for a moment. He blinked, once, twice, then sat up and rolled off of the other man as his brain came back online. "Morning," he said absently as he reached for the cellphone on the side table. His eyes narrowed as he scanned both the messages, his hand tightening on the phone enough to make the plastic creek. A growling sound deep from his chest rolled through the room as Sherlock considered what this meant. There was no doubt in his mind that this was the person who had set everything up, who was somehow responsible for John being here, for rigging it so that his life was a copy of Watson's. Sherlock retreated in to himself, his mind racing as he went through all the possibilities. He forgot John was next to him in his complete focus. He needed to think. The game was on. What game? Who's game? It was imperative that he was in top form.

But then a warm hand was there on his bare shoulder, wonderful but distracting. It was accompanied by a voice that met much the same qualifications. "Good morning." He said softly, and then as his hand began to gently rub Sherlock's shoulder, he felt how tense he was and blinked his eyes a bit farther open, looking down at the phone. It kept waking them up from the best sleep, and John was quite annoyed with it. This time whatever it was had Sherlock even more on edge than a call from his brother, so John made it a point to wake himself up, until he was also fully aware. "Who was it?" He asked, voice serious very suddenly.

Sherlock blinked and dragged himself out of his mind for John's sake. He tried to fight off the rather virulent emotions, but it was hard. The mystery person might have made the first move, but he was correct. The game was on. Sherlock couldn't deny the thrill. His insides felt like they were vibrating. This was it, it was starting, a new case, an exciting case! And at the end he would find the one responsible for fucking up John's life, for pulling the strings like a demented little puppet master, and he would make him pay for it all. Oh, but it was Christmas. Sherlock tried for a calm front as he answered, "I believe it is the man who is responsible for our recent upset. The one who has been orchestrating your life." He passed John the phone so that he could read the message, then jumped up to pace back and forth. He needed to move, if only a bit. This was not something he could think on while laying prone on the couch. Questions, so many questions, and not any answers.

John felt a lump in his throat. So, this was really all about Sherlock. His life was just a pawn, just a message for him. John tried to swallow, to dispel the feeling of being choked. John resolved that if he was going to be a message for Sherlock, it would be a different one than whoever has created him had intended. The message would be you are not alone, or you're worthy of being loved, or something like that, cheesy but useful. John flipped back and forth between the texts, trying to ignore Sherlock's pacing because it was distracting as hell. "That makes sense, but... Sherlock, these texts are from different numbers. One of them is traceable." John's voice still sounded tight, though, and for all that he was trying to be useful, it didn't take a genius to know that he was immensely bothered.

Sherlock stopped abruptly in his pacing and turned to look at John. He'd forgotten already, in the joy of a new mystery, that there was someone else wrapped up in this, someone important, who would find all of this far more important than even Sherlock. "Damn," Sherlock muttered, scolding himself. He took in John's words and planned to perhaps call Mycroft to trace the number, or maybe the Yard if it were possible for them. But right now he let John's emotions crash over him as he stepped forward and took the phone from John, lacing their fingers together and giving a tight squeeze, trying to offer comfort through physical means. "John," He said simply, voice low.

John gave a long, shuddering breath, but Sherlock's fingers around his own did help immensely. "No, don't..." He started protesting. As good as it felt to have Sherlock worrying about him, it wasn't going to solve this mystery. "Don't worry about me. You have a madman to catch." He shook his head. He could keep himself together. "We should get started on this. Tell me what to do." John's dread didn't abate a bit, nor did his anxiety. He was still so tightly strung it was painful, for both of them. He pulled away from Sherlock and began to get dressed. He wanted the criminal to be caught, so he could get his answers, ASAP.

Sherlock stared at John for a long moment, trying to decide if it would actually be best for him to ignore the emotions he was getting from the other man. He felt as if John might break at any moment. In any case, if he did, Sherlock would be there to keep him together. Decision made he whirled back around to continue pacing. "Text Lestrade. Ask him if he can trace the number. If he can't, text Mycroft. He'll have the resources, no doubt, but I would rather not have to resort to asking him for a favor. He will hold it against me until he can cash it in." He hates owing Mycroft with a passion, but this was more important than that. He would suffer owing his brother ten favors if, by the end of this little game, he needed to.

John was used to being on the edge. Even though he truly wasn't that far from snapping and shattering, he knew that he was more than capable of keeping himself from toppling over that edge. It was a relief to be useful, however. John contacted Lestrade, but the return text was _Why do you need it?- GL._ John frowned. "The Yard wants to know why we need to traced. What are we supposed to tell them?" How did they explain this case? It wasn't as if the Yard was asking them for help this time, they were asking the Yard. And they couldn't exactly explain what the situation was, vampires and clones and all.

Sherlock growled in irritation while he paced. Yes, how were they to explain this case to Lestrade? He was an idiot, they all were, but he wasn't so stupid as to trace a number without a reason. Probably against some kind of law down at the Yard. As if he wasn't breaking the rules by asking Sherlock for help all the time. "Lie," He snapped at John. Sherlock took a deep breath to calm himself down. This was important, yes, but he could not be snapping at John's heels right now. It would do no one any good. "Tell him anything. Tell him it's for a case where we're tracking down a murderous lover who texted his mistress. Something. If he still denies you..." Sherlock's lip curled up. "Text Mycroft. Unfortunately, this- you- it's more important than my hatred of my brother."

John texted Lestrade. It took several long minutes, during which John watched Sherlock pace back and forth, before the DI responded, so instead John enjoyed the view. This wasn't quite the time for it, but Sherlock really was beautiful, especially when he was on his game and _especially_ when he was being protective of John. Sherlock could feel John's gentle appreciation filtering through his thought processes, and the warmth that John felt when Sherlock told him just how important this case was. Then he got a text back from Lestrade.

_Liar. 344 Sunrise Terrace. Will require an explanation later. Keep us informed and don't do anything stupid. - GL_

Sherlock bit his lip, allowing himself to be distracted slightly by John's admiration. Certainly not the time for it, but it calmed him down, made him remember just why he was so invested in this single case. For John. It was for John. He clapped his hands together as John recited the text. "Good, good. We'll have to investigate. Not quite sure how we'll explain this to Lestrade later, but it's not important now." He took a breath and turned to look John in the eye. "Shall we? Are you prepared?" There was no telling what they would find at that location. Sherlock needed to be absolutely sure John was ready to handle this. He needed John to be solid. It might be asking a lot, but there it is.

John drew himself to his full height, which was still not very tall, but seemed it, for all the resolve set in the man's shoulders. Sherlock could feel his unease, but for all of that, John knew he was as solid as would be necessary. He would have to be. He'd done this before, waking up the morning after narrow misses and still fighting another day. It was what soldiers did. While they still could. John nodded, and then left the room, hunting after his gun. He would probably need it, this time, and even if he didn't, he wanted it. John met Sherlock again in the living room, and took Sherlock's hand, squeezing it tight, before they departed.

Sherlock smiled at John's back as he left the room. He was seeing the soldier now, obviously; the type of man who went out and got things done because they needed doing. Sherlock found himself wishing, suddenly, that the bond went both ways like it was supposed to, so that John could feel his own appreciation. Sherlock could feel how John admired him when he was on his game, but he wished John could feel how affected he was by the strong, collected soldier in front of him. But John couldn't feel it, and Sherlock wasn't sure how to voice it, and so he just gripped John's hand all the tighter once he returned. He sniffed, smelling the tell-tale sign of gun oil and nodded his head approvingly. Together they left the flat, hailing another cab to take them to their destination.

John didn't feel like he was missing out. How could he? He'd never had anyone else in his mind before. In fact, he rather liked having his head all to himself. He didn't think too hard about the fact that Sherlock could feel him. For John, the warm squeeze of a hand in a leather glove was all he needed to know how highly Sherlock regarded him.  John didn't let go of him while they got into the cab. The situation was too much, and John was happy to get strength from wherever he could find it, and fuck social niceties. It was, thankfully, a rather long trip, out into the countryside.

Sherlock stretched his legs out in front of him, staring straight ahead but at nothing in particular. His gaze was simply locked in one spot while he retreated back in to his head to contemplate the situation. They may be walking in to a trap. It may be nothing. Too many variables, and he had too little information. Sherlock's stare intensified, making it seem as if he was glaring at the back of their drivers head. The important thing here, of course, was to find the one behind this, but equally important was to protect John. Sherlock was perfectly aware that John Watson could hold his own, but they were dealing with obviously supernatural things. Sherlock would not be letting him out of his site. As if to enforce this, the hand wrapped around John's own tightened nearly painfully.

John was just as aware of the possible (who was he kidding, LIKELY) supernatural risks that this case had with it, and that there was very little he could do before he cowered behind Sherlock and hoped for the best- Not that John would actually shake with fear or anything equally silly, but there was something he didn't like about being powerless in that way. To be fair, he was packing silver bullets, and that was the best he could possibly prepare for that. Technically, keeping close to Sherlock was the smartest thing he could do, otherwise. The house they pulled up to was truly in the middle of nowhere. It seemed to be well kept, however. It was a quaint little cottage, in fact. John only broke the tight, reassuring grip on Sherlock’s hand to get out of the car. John wasn't worried about coppers seeing his firearm way out here, so he had his gun at the ready by the time he came around to Sherlock's side of the car, making sure it was out of view of the cabbie. "I'm not the only one who thinks this looks incredibly suspicious here, am I?" He asked. There didn't seem to be any ruckus going on inside the cottage, but there didn't need to be. They were the ones who had been summoned, after all.

Sherlock cracked his knuckles as he got out of the car, taking a quick breath to steady himself and settle his thoughts. He took another moment to quietly admire the strong front John presented, gun in hand. His lips quirked up in a half smile. "Very suspicious," He agreed, taking in the house and the quiet land around them. His eyes swept over the house, taking in every little detail, from the paint on the door to the size of the entire structure. Sherlock strained his ears, but still couldn't detect anything from inside. Either the house was sound proofed, or there really was nothing going on. Sherlock gestured to the front door. "Shall we? They know we are here. We might as well go in through the front."

John nodded, ready to jump headfirst into danger. Of course it was sound proofed. Moriarty knew exactly who he was dealing with, after all. Sherlock was supposed to be jumped, was supposed to be, if not surprised, at least properly ambushed. Unfortunately, it was not Sherlock who stepped into the cottage first, and so John was snatched into strong arms by one of four men, all of them pale and dark haired, and though John struggled admirably and almost disentangled himself, there was only so much he could do, being overpowered the way he was.

Sherlock froze, just for a moment, just for a second, just to take stock of the situation before he lunged forward. John was in the arms of one of them, and he fought valiantly, but he was not able to break free of the strong grip. Two others stood beside them, flanking the first man, and another stood partially behind them and off to the left, standing in front of the opening to the house's living room. An intense anger sprung up in his chest. How dare they threaten his mate. Mine, that reptilian part of his brain hissed at him. Mine. Sherlock made his move. The men did not even have time to blink before he was darting towards the one holding John, the fingers of his right hand folded to the bottom knuckles, and he slammed the bottom part of his palm up against the nose, the force of the strike breaking the bones and ramming directly up. He dropped. Sherlock wasted no time in shoving John backwards, perhaps a bit harder than he'd meant to, simply to get him out of the way so that he could grab the man on the right by the lapels and slam him in to the one on the left. They tumbled under the force, crashing in to the wall and then the floor, legs tangled together, dazed, and Sherlock used their distraction to snatch up a vase sitting on a small table by the door. He whirled around and extended his arm in the same motion, letting the vase go to smash in to the last man's face. He howled in pain as the glass shattered, the shards slicing in to his skin. The two on the floor had made it up, and Sherlock darted forward to grasp both of their heads in one hand each. He slammed them together, cracking their skulls. They too dropped to join the first man on the floor, limp. Three enemies down. One left. Sherlock stalked forward, a purely animalistic snarl escaping his lips. Normally he would not be so vocal, because the noise was definitely not human, and he could not afford to be found out, but Sherlock had no plans of anyone leaving this house alive to spread the tale.

The last man had overcome his pain enough to raise a gun at Sherlock's chest, and the barrel was surprisingly steady for the man's obviously high pain level - his face was a mess of red, weeping lines. The man's eyes twitched, towards John, and his aim started to waver in that direction, obviously believing that Sherlock would back down if John was threatened. "Wrong," He hissed, and the tone of voice was nothing like his usual one. It was dark and cold, oh so cold, nearly emotionless if not for the thread of rage coloring it. It was over in a second after that. The man started to pull the trigger and Sherlock was suddenly in front of him, grabbing him by the wrist and snapping it. The gun fell to the ground and fired itself. Sherlock used his hold on the broken wrist to pull the man forward, and his other to grasp his neck, holding him in place while the first hand dropped to join the second. A wet cracking sound echoed in the house after the loud roar of the gun. The final man joined the others, his neck bent at a grotesque angle. Sherlock stood with his back to John, staring down at the final body.

As quickly as John realized that he was grabbed, John also realized he'd been slammed into the walls by Sherlock. He was dazed, but when he opened his eyes he saw Sherlock properly thrashing all four men. He'd seen people die before, he'd even killed himself, but he'd never seen Sherlock kill before. It was terrifying. John even winced as he heard the noise of that man's spine cracking and severing, and the man fell, dead. The dread that welled up in him was normal, happened whenever he was around when someone died. What wasn't normal was the arousal that accompanied it, seeing Sherlock move so quickly and efficiently and beautiful- "Fuck." John hissed, because this was dirty, being turned on when four guys just died in front of him. He put his hand over his eyes, shielding that instant, perverse shame from Sherlock, though of course he could feel it instantly. The sheer power of Sherlock was amazing, glorious, and John couldn't deny how attracted he was to it, but this was wrong. The question was, could he resist the way Sherlock's body was now pulsing with strength and agility that no normal human could possibly have?

Sherlock swallowed, hard. He was completely unfazed by the fact that he had just ended four men's lives in rapid succession, but John's emotions over the bond were too much for him to handle without making some form of physical reaction. He himself felt a bit sick at how he liked John's attraction to him while he attacked, but John's shame was much worse to endure. Sherlock's shoulders hunched slightly, and he refused to turn around and look John in the eye. If John was disgusted, that was the last thing he wanted to see. Better he continued to stare down at the body at his feet while he considered what this meant. They shouldn't have come so unprepared. Obviously it had been a trap. Stupid. How could he let John walk in to this? Sherlock licked his lips, momentarily distracted by the scent of blood. He should probably step out of the house, or at least out of the entry way, and away from the mess he'd made. He didn't move.

John gave himself a second to gather his wits, to acclimate himself to the smell of blood because when it was around in such abundance, even John and his human olfactory could detect it, to get used to the sight of dead men and to try to get the sound of snapping necks out of his head. It was probably also a good idea to try and get the feeling of arousal gone too, but pushing himself up off the wall and walking over close to Sherlock was not helping. Sherlock was still wavering slightly and trembling with the adrenaline of what he'd done. John leaned down near him. "That was...something." He said, not sure what to say about the display he'd just witnessed. "Are you alright, Sherlock?" He asked, not reaching forward to touch Sherlock. He wasn't disgusted by Sherlock, but he was of course, put off by the blatant murder that was going on. The real disgust was for how much John himself had liked watching it.

Sherlock didn't much care if the disgust was directed at himself or not, he hated that he was responsible for John feeling it at all. He blinked, once, a slow fall of his eyelids, before he turned to John, perfectly composed again, as if he hadn't just killed, and he ignored John's emotions completely, the disgust and the arousal both. "I'm fine. Are you alright? I'm afraid I was not really watching my strength when I pushed you. I was...otherwise occupied." Sherlock checked John over, making sure there was nothing obviously wrong. After he was sure John was uninjured, he glanced around the room, only breathing in short little intakes to lessen the amount of blood he smelled. What now? He thought to himself. This was a bust. None of these men were responsible for John's predicament. That much was obvious. Too stupid, too slow. They were back to zero. That had been their only lead, if you could even call it that. It was a planned ambush, not a mistake for Sherlock to pick up on and follow like a trail.

John took a moment to take stock of hos he was feeling physically. A little battered and bruised, but truly no matter. "I'm fine, physically. I'm sure you know already that I'm feeling a little bollocksed up right now, but I can handle that..." Or he would be able to, if Sherlock weren't breathing quick like he was excited and his eyes weren't darting around the room, still like a predator, and John didn't feel as though every instance that made John think of Sherlock as a predator made his cock stir more and more in his comfy jeans. "Are we safe here, do you think?" He asked, breathlessly, as he seemed to be able to think of little else besides how much he wanted his mouth on some of that milky skin, and it didn't matter where.

Sherlock attempted to ignore John's arousal as best he could, but his emotions mixing with Sherlock's own bloodlust were making it near impossible. His fangs were fighting to spring out, and he was suddenly intensely aware of the beating of John's pulse at his throat. He turned away from John, stepping in to the living room to look around and to also bring him at least a bit farther from the blood. "I can’t hear anything else, but I couldn't hear anything from outside as well, so it is a possibility that they have sound proofed all of the rooms. No one came running at the sound of violence, so either no one is here or they are lying in wait, such as these four did. If they are here, only idiots would set this up and then have no way of knowing if it failed or succeeded." He turned back to John, eyes narrowed and intense but not really looking at him, simply lost in his own head again. His eyes took up darting around the house, always watching for signs of movement.

Heat was still clouding John's mind, rather spectacularly. In fact, he hadn't ever felt this way in his life. Aroused, yes, obviously, but...This was very different. He was hyper aware, his own breath now coming in short pants. He could think clearly, but the only thoughts that seemed to come were thoughts of sex. John followed Sherlock into the living room like a puppy following its owner. "But do you think it's safe right _here_?" John asked, insistently. It mattered. It was of vital importance. Because if they weren't safe, they had to leave, and then John couldn't do anything about the maddening arousal that was threatening to drive him insane. When he realized that his eyes kept drifting back to Sherlock, and that looking at his stupidly attractive lover did NOT help, he closed them. If he'd been able to think about something other than how much he wanted to nail Sherlock on the sofa in the living room they were investigating, he might have remembered the tiny prick of a needle as he was grabbed, earlier, when he'd been injected with aphrodisiac.

Sherlock came back from his internal musings, blinking in slight confusion. "Well, obviously, it is at the moment. I took care of the apparent threat," Here he paused to gesture at the bodies in the entry way, "And nothing else has presented itself as yet. We are safe for the moment. Why?" His eyes narrowed, focusing now entirely on John. "Do you think it's not?" Sherlock looked away, once again looking for a threat, but this time it was more than a simple glance over the room. He paid attention to every little detail, no matter how small or seemingly meaningless. Something was bothering John, that much was obvious. He seemed to be panting, and to Sherlock's eye he even seemed to be sweating. Something was wrong. Sherlock's shoulders tensed and his body took on the coiled tautness of a predator lying in wait.

Which meant he should have been perfectly prepared for John taking the few steps forward quicker than lightning, and reaching up to take his face in both hands and kiss him firmly, shoving his tongue into Sherlock's mouth on contact. He made a desperate whining sound and pressed himself even closer, his already hard erection grinding against Sherlock's upper thigh. John was needy, obviously, starving for any bit of Sherlock he could manage to get. Oh, fuck, Sherlock was so warm and his mouth was perfect, as perfect as it always had been, and they were so close that the blood from the men who had died that was speckling Sherlock's face smeared onto his own and that was fucking HOT and- And even as John kept kissing Sherlock, a sick tremor of disgust shook through him, not at touching the blood, but by feeling turned on by it. He didn't STOP being turned on, though.

Sherlock stumbled back in surprise as John all but collided in to him, his hands flying up automatically to grip at John's shoulders. He should have been expecting this, the arousal he'd felt had been steadily growing, but he didn't know why. Sherlock had just killed several men, the bodies were still on the ground, and while in his kind violence such as that did tend to lead to mates being aroused, John was human. By all rights he should be feeling disturbed, not turned on. His lips opened on their own accord and he pressed in to the kiss, because how could he not? It was intense, and Sherlock's brain stuttered a bit when John ground his erection against Sherlock. But that flash of disgust had him pulling back, pushed John away by his hold on his shoulders. "John," He panted, lips bruised and red and glistening slightly in the sunlight streaming in through the windows of the living room, "What are you doing?" He was lost. This was not like John, not at all.

But now that John had had some, he needed more. He felt like he'd die if he didn't. John looked intensely up at Sherlock, and he begged, "Please, Sherlock, I need to." He swallowed and let out a shuddering breath. "You were so- Fuck, you were gorgeous, Sherlock." John itched to take all of Sherlock's clothes off right there, but Sherlock was pushing him away, at length. "You're so hot, please. Fuck me, on the floor or the couch or against the wall, anywhere, just... Please.” It didn't matter where, as long as it was _soon_. John's fingers ached to touch himself, but they ached to touch Sherlock's smooth skin more.

Sherlock stared, his breathing taking on a distinctly labored pattern. If he were in his right mind, he would have dragged John out of the house right now and taken him to a doctor, because something was majorly wrong. But he wasn't in his right mind. The bloodlust mixed with John's own lust fogged Sherlock's brain, made him slower, and John's words lit it on fire. Ten different scenarios popped up in to his head immediately, ten different ways he could take John, each one more forceful than the last, and his eyes became hooded, focused in on John like he was prey. He took half a step forward before the rational, sane part of his brain kicked back in and began screaming at him. They couldn't do this, not here, not in a room surrounded by death. He had no misconceptions of John being untainted, or of being a maiden that needed protection, but a small, quiet part of Sherlock insisted that the first time he fully took John should not be in this room coated in the scent of others and of their blood and of death. "No," He said, his voice breaking slightly on the one word, his concern was so great. "John, you're not thinking clearly. Something has happened to you." The hands gripping John's shoulder tightened.

Which was good, because John began to actively struggle against him. He needed Sherlock so badly that now he would physically fight to get near him.  He whined again, a high needy sound, because it was a NEED now, because John felt like if Sherlock didn't touch him this very moment, he would explode. He began to babble as one hand fell to rub himself through thick denim. "You saved my life, Sherlock. I was moments from death and my heart is beating so fast- And it's because of YOU, because you're so fucking amazing, nobody else could do that, or if they did it wouldn't be so fucking sexy and Sherlock you can do anything you want as long as you TOUCH me-" He moaned those words, because even saying it made the idea of being touched by Sherlock real enough to make him shiver with delight. "You could even feed. I'd be delicious, and you'd feel so good after and then we could REALLY fuck-"

Sherlock moaned, a noise low in the back of his throat that rang of defeat, and used his hold on John to drag him closer. Their lips crashed together in a fierce kiss, and Sherlock ravaged John's mouth. That was too much. The rational part of his brain could take a hike, he could not hear John speak like that and not kiss him. He backed them up until they were fully in the living room, never once breaking the kiss, and shoved John against the far wall. "Fuck, John," He murmurs against the others lips, biting at them as he speaks. He forgets that they might possibly be in danger, forgets that someone is probably watching the house, forgets even why they are here. All he is aware of is the points of contact between them, and of John's erection that he is currently grinding his own against. He burns with need. The need to take, to fuck and to feed.

As soon as John gets what he wants, his agony becomes nothing but joy and relief.  Sherlock pressing against him is hitting every one of those nerves that had ached to be stimulated, and if felt so good that John actually smiled into the enthusiasm of the kiss they shared, and then even more when Sherlock pulls away to speak to him. Fuck indeed! Being sated was magnificent. John’s hands came up to undo as many of the buttons on Sherlock's shirt as he possibly could. He didn't stop to consider that they were in the middle of an investigation, or possibly in danger, or within smelling range of four corpses. He didn't even care that he was covered in blood now too. This was going to be an EXCELLENT shag.

Sherlock backed away enough to lick the blood from John's cheek, his hot tongue making a wet trail, a shiver working its way down his spine. He ignored the bitter, disgusting taste to it. For a moment he'd forgotten that everything but John's blood tasted horrible. Sherlock licked his lips and dragged his hands down John's side, nails digging in through his jumper, and cupped John's arse. He used his new hold to easily lift John up against the wall, the weight not even near a strain for him, intending for John to wrap his legs around Sherlock's waist. He pressed closer again, spreading John's legs with his body, and pressed hot, open mouthed kisses to the skin at John's throat.

John wrapped his legs around just the way Sherlock expected him to. Why not? Having Sherlock press him up against the wall and grind against him was perfect, just right, except... "Want your skin on me. Want to feel you." He gasped, bracing himself on Sherlock's shoulder with one hand and tangling his other hand in Sherlock's hair. He canted his hips into Sherlock as his hand pulled Sherlock's face even closer to his neck. Was Sherlock going to feed, now? John liked the idea of that, but not as much as he liked the idea of Sherlock naked. “Make me yours."

Sherlock pressed his own hips forward and up, grinding in to John and pressing him even further in to the wall. He moaned a low, needy sound, at John asking, all but begging, for him to take him, make him his own. Sherlock tongue flicked out to trace a long line along John's throat. He placed several kisses there, sucking once or twice in the same spot until the area was red and bruised. His fangs slid out and rested on the skin for a moment, letting the anticipation of it build. They pricked John's skin just a bit, and a tiny drop of blood welled up. That broke him. With one last thought to make it as pleasurable as possible, since he could change the way it felt for his victim - didn't want someone screaming in pain while you were trying to be discreet - Sherlock sank his fangs in to the side of John's neck, causing blood to well out as soon as he'd drawn back enough to lick and suck at the wound. Another moan escaped from the back of his throat, but this was rougher than the first, a noise of pure satiation.

Now both of John's hands slid into Sherlock's hair while John tipped his head back as far as he possibly could to allow Sherlock the room he needed to drink. It had only been a few days since the last time, but that didn't much matter to John at a time like this, not when that moan Sherlock was giving reverberated back through his very veins and straight to his cock. It felt so good, after the initial sting. It always felt good to be Sherlock's source of sustenance, to feel needed like this, to feel like he gave Sherlock life. As Sherlock was just finishing up, though, there was suddenly a hand on the back of Sherlock's head, one that wasn't John's, pinning him in place. It was small, pale, manicured, and infinitely strong, so much so that even Sherlock could not fight it. There was a face pressed against his that also wasn't John's, and a voice, so soft, in his ear, "Drink, Sherlock." It was a hypnotizing sound, but it couldn't force Sherlock to do anything. He could coerce him though, especially since there was suddenly a hand near John's head too, holding a gun unlike one either John or Sherlock had ever seen before. It was white, made out of some kind of material that was unidentifiable, and the barrel and trigger had hints of gold in them. John was snapped out of his horny stupor, then. Having your life threatened tended to do that to you. He tried to pull his hands away to grab at Sherlock shoulders and push him away, but the hand at the back of Sherlock’s head gripped him tight.

Sherlock tried to jerk away but found he couldn't, the hand at the back of his head holding him firm. He snarled, lips pulling back, as he just barely caught sight of the gun pressed against John's own head. _No_ , his brain hissed. It tried to comprehend this, to plan, but the bloodlust was still gripping him and all he could really think about was John's pulse beneath him, and of the blood still welling out from his puncture wounds. No matter how hard he tried, his thoughts always drifted back there. The voice in his ear encouraging him to continue did not help. There was something about it that lulled him in to a dazed state, made it seem as if his request to continue was perfectly logical. Sherlock's tongue flicked out, making the wound at John's throat flow fresh again. He lapped at it like a cat lapping at milk, not sucking, but still taking blood from the other man.

Moriarty's smile was chilling. It had an odd quirk to it, the kind of which was usually only seen by super villains in horror movies. "Drain him." He hissed, voice as soft as a lover's.  He wanted Sherlock to drink almost every drop of blood from John's body, straight. He knew how painful it would be, because after a while, no matter how pleasurable the saliva of the vampire who was eating you felt in your bloodstream,  when your veins no longer had blood pumping through them and collapsed…it was unpleasant, to say the least.

John struggled, but after a long moment he realized what Moriarty was trying to do. What the point of him holding Sherlock’s head there was. "He wants you to drain me. Kill me, Sherlock!” He screamed even as he struggled for life. "I swear to god if you turn me I will never ever forgive you. Kill me!!" He didn't want to die. Oh, please god, let him live. He wanted to spend so much more time with Sherlock. He didn't want to leave him alone like he had been for all this time. Just a few days was not enough for their relationship, to keep Sherlock happy...And John didn't want to be in pain, or be gone forever...But that wasn't nearly as important. "Sherlock, Sherlock..." He said, still writhing, trying to get the man to pay attention to him and stop sucking his blood from his veins.

Sherlock bit again, in the same spot, so that the blood welled up fresh again, but the flow was slower now because John was quickly running out. Sherlock had fed not too long ago, and so he was nearly bloated with John's blood, but he continued to drink, because if he didn't Moriarty would shoot John with that gun that every bit of his being shied away from. A muffled sob broke itself against John's skin, and while his eyes were dry, Sherlock was completely torn inside. In the list of things he never knew he never wanted hear, John begging him to kill him was high up. He didn't know what to do. He drew back slightly, but Moriarty's hand on his head just pushed him back in place. The man underneath him was deathly pale, nearly as pale as Sherlock himself, and with so much blood gone he should be unable to fight very much longer. They were past the point of no return, now. John had just enough blood to keep him alive, just barely, and if Moriarty wanted Sherlock to turn him, now was the time. If Sherlock drank anymore, the man he loved would die under his hands.

That sob awakened a very deep and needy part of John- the part that needed to make sure that his love was cared for to the best of his ability. He stopped struggling, and ran his fingertips over Sherlock's scalp instead, and tried to keep breathing regularly through the pain that was beginning to burn though every bit of him, and his vision went, leaving him in utter blackness. "Love you, Sherlock. I loved you to the end." He had to fight himself not to ask Sherlock to make sure that it really was the end and not some kind of strange, terrible beginning. "And past that." He hissed instead, because if there was an afterlife, he sure as hell was loving Sherlock in it. "This is not your fault. I'm yours, and I love you, I'm... I...." He tried to keep speaking but before he knew it, he was blacking out completely.

When he was drained, Moriarty let the gun drop. "Aww, Sherlooock, he loved you right to the very end!" He giggled and shook his head. "Unless this wasn't the end. Would he still love you if you turned him?" Moriarty pressed the gun now to Sherlock's cheek, and it began to burn flesh just by touching it. "Let's find out."

Sherlock yowled and flinched away from the gun, his arms wrapped tight around John's body. "No," He snarled. "You fucking bastard. No. Kill me. I will not do that to him when it is not what he wants." Sherlock was shaking, his grip on John strong enough that it would probably leave bruises. Bruises on a corpse. Much like what he'd been doing the day they met. Oh, god, John was dead. Dead. His mate, gone. That ancient, animalistic part of him howled in pain and rage and sorrow, and he wasn't even really aware of what he was saying to Moriarty anymore, only that it was vicious and derogatory. John, John, John, no. It was like a mantra in his head, the only thing he was capable of thinking as he stared down at John's unmoving body. Don't leave me, he thought desperately. I need you. I need you, but you're going to leave me, because I can't bring you back. You said you'd hate me. But I need you. Sherlock's thought process wasn't entirely coherent right now, even to him.

Sherlock's skin didn't bleed. It cauterized. Up close, it could be seen that the gun had crosses over it, but the holy symbol wasn't what reacted poorly to him. It was the pure, angelic intent of the weapon. It would burn any creature of the night, unholy or not. Moriarty chuckled, and pressed it against Sherlock again, this time across his forehead. These were wounds that simply wouldn't heal. "Come now, Sherlock. He loved you. Don't you want to know how much? Don't you want to know if he loved you even farther than his humanity could bring him? Even farther than his own hate?" Moriarty shook his head and tsked at Sherlock. "Pathetic. You, a vampire, reduced to nothing but petty words and trembling with your dead lover." He made a noise and then let loose his viciousness over his face and in his voice as he screamed, loud enough to echo through the cottage, "PATHETIC! I don't even know why I bothered with this whole thing. I mean, I did want to break you down, but shattered like this? I was hoping to drag the pain out a while longer." He'd wanted to see Sherlock try and fail to hold it together.

Sherlock snarled again, this time in pain. That weapon hurt just to look at, and where it touched him, it burnt worse than the sun beating directly on to his skin. He winced at Moriarty's scream, his above average hearing working against him in this, and even after he was done speaking the noise continued to ring in his ears. Sherlock looked away, down at John again, at the lifeless face, at the blue tinge to his usually red lips. Moriarty's words were enticing, ridiculously so. Did John love him 'even farther than his humanity could bring him'? But, no. He didn't. That was obvious, in the way he struggled and screamed for death, and then went tame at the end. Sherlock felt another sob rip its way out of his throat, and couldn't even bring himself to care that he was being emotional, in front of the enemy of all people! But surely, surely, John would forgive him eventually if Sherlock turned him. Even if he never wanted to see Sherlock again, just knowing that John would be alive somewhere...that would be better than death, wouldn't it? "Why?" He asked, looking up at Moriarty, his gaze shying away from the gun. "What was all of this for?" Even now he could not stop asking questions, even with the body of his dead lover in his arms.

Jim smiled pleasantly at him. "I wanted to hurt you. I still want to hurt you. In fact, I'm of the opinion that you clearly aren't hurting enough." Jim was sure that the hurt would set in, get under his skin if John was left to remain dead, like the other John Watson had. But that wasn't quite so satisfying. Vampires were not God's creatures. They were monsters and they deserved to SUFFER. Sherlock happened to be smart, interesting, and vulnerable. He was easy and entertaining. And so what if righteous punishment was not what God had asked him to do? He hadn't done anything along those lines in a WHILE. He hadn't even been a part of the Holy Order for several decades. Long enough to watch Sherlock Holmes. Long enough to make John Watson. "But there's no reason for him to suffer, is there? No reason for him to endure death?" John had lived a holy enough life, despite the murder. It was a shame that his artificial, cobbled together, Frankenstein creature status disqualified him from heaven, or Jim might have just let him die. "Because of you? You owe it to him to reverse what you've done, don't you? You killed John Watson. And I would be sad to see him go too....No one likes to see one of their children perish."

Sherlock leapt to his feet from where he had gradually slide down, still taking the time to gently place John on the floor. "No!" He hissed. "You killed him! You forced me in to draining him! Do not blame this on me, you fucking bastard." His hands clenched tight, a tremor shaking them just like they used to shake John's hand. "And he is not your child. You may have created him, but he is not yours." He spat the last word, stalking towards Moriarty, his rage so intense he didn't even care about that horrible weapon Moriarty held. He just wanted the man to suffer, like Sherlock was suffering now. He wanted him dead. After that, perhaps, maybe, he would take care of John. Maybe he'd bury him. Maybe he'd turn him. Sherlock wasn't entirely sane right now. Half of him was making funeral plans, the other half making plans to take care of a newly turned vampire.

Moriarty rolled his eyes. "I daresay I've spent a lot more time watching over him than you have. I've even been kind to him, over the years. Afghanistan was good for him, believe it or not." And it was true- as miserable as he had been coming home with a gunshot wound, John would say the same. It had been good for him. Anyway, Moriarty wasn't the least bit afraid of Sherlock. He could force him, but he wanted him to come to his own conclusions. All the better for the guilt. "But yeah, okay... I did." He smiled almost sweetly. "It still doesn't mean he should suffer like I'm making you suffer, does it?" He leveled his gun at Sherlock. "Don't make me put a bullet in you, Sherlock. You can't touch me. No one ever gets to me."

Sherlock tensed, instinctively knowing that whatever the bullet in that gun was made of would be lethal. "I did," he whispered, trying to provoke the other man, to knock him off his balance. "You're here, aren't you? Something about me caught your attention. Why else go to all the trouble? To do this?" He swept an arm out, a gesture meant to highlight all five bodies in the room. "I got to you, somehow." His voice was low, with a hypnotizing quality of its own now. He was trying to glamour Moriarty, subtly. Sherlock would try anything that had even a chance of getting him out of here with John's body. The mention of John suffering made him pause, though. Would it be better to let him die to turn him in to a creature of the night, with a life he would hate? Sherlock made a rookie mistake by glancing away from the enemy to look back down at John.

Moriarty laughed. "YOU didn't get to me!! I picked you because it was _easy_." He  snorted, as though he couldn't stop himself from chuckling.  "You were so easy, Sherlock! Not just because you were separated from your clan, but because you were so broken already! A glamour. Hah! But that you even needed it in the first place. You're so mushy it’s disgusting. And just a little bit hilarious." His condescending smile quirked his lips. "You can't glamour me, by the way. I'm above you. Waaay above you. You know, John wasn't like you. He wouldn't have broken down from loss and betrayal the way you did. He was strong." Jim snorted. "He doesn't need you. Not really. He said so, but that was out of shock. He was confused. All it means is that if he left you, he could still make it on his own. Meet someone pretty. Be HAPPY, Sherlock. And he'll have an eternity to do it."

Sherlock twitched, that instinctive part of him wanting to smack Moriarty down for his condescension. He knew better. Whatever this man was, he really was above Sherlock's race, if the glamour wouldn't work. He sank back down to his knees by John as he listened to Moriarty's little speech. It was true, wasn't it? John could have been happy without Sherlock. Would have been. He would have found a woman, another Mary, would have made a family for himself. But instead he'd met Sherlock and now his life was gone. The least Sherlock could do would be to...extend that life...give him another chance...Even as a vampire he'd have a chance to live. John deserved that, didn't he? John deserved everything. Sherlock reached out with a shaking hand to tip back John's head, to gently pry open his mouth. The other hand rose to his own lips, pausing, just a moment of hesitation, and then his fangs sank deep in to his own wrist. He didn't wince at the pain of it, only lowered the now bloody gash to John's mouth. The man on the floor wasn't completely dead, but he was unconscious. His body reacted instantly; drinking the offer like it was ambrosia. After a moment Sherlock swayed and pulled that arm back, only to repeat the process with the other wrist. His veins would collapse if he tried to complete the turning with only one spot. The entire time he never looked up at Moriarty, never glanced away from his mate. If this was to happen, if he was taking away John's humanity, he would at least bear witness to it, completely.

John's consciousness was there. It was above. It was present there, in the cottage. Everything was blurry except him. In fact, John felt right as rain. The sounds of Sherlock's voice- yes, that was Sherlock- as well as another, a man...They were all so muffled and jumbled that he couldn't even pick up intonation, let alone words. But he could tell it was Sherlock. Oh, the sound was wonderful. But where was he? Why was he there? Why was the entire world through a thick fog? John tried to focus on things. It took him many long minutes to remember, it figure it out. That meant...He was dead. Dead!? Was this what it was to be dead? Why was he alone? Was he a ghost? None of that made sense. Just as he was beginning to panic, it became light. Still foggy, but...There was a being beside him. A body, made of light. It was paying John very little attention even as it was beside him, and it was ripping through the fog, layer by layer, furiously. It had a long way to go. "My dear John." It said, and the voice didn't sound familiar so much as _feel_ familiar. "I am sorry this had to happen to you. I'm sorry you had to happen." Exasperated, John asked what, what had to happen, and WHY!? What did it mean it was sorry HE had to happen?

"It is such a sin." It said. "To bring into the world something that can feel, that has a soul, even one ramshackle and stitched together with the remnants of the dead, which cannot properly reach the afterlife. You're a human with an obsolete soul, John. You can die, but you cannot ascend. As of now, you've done neither. You're not quite dead. It will be unfortunate if you die and unfortunate if you live." John didn't quite understand it, but the light felt good. Marvelous. And not good in that way that drinking a bit too much makes you feel good, or finding that perfect adrenaline rush makes you feel good. This good could not be malevolent, had no risks and no guilt. It just felt _good_. The being kept digging. "You're in a holding pattern right now, in the higher plain where humans come to dream, and when they are so close to death that they leave their bodies. This is where intact souls come before they are taken in to God's arms. You are not one of them. If you die, you will perish. Truly. You will fall apart." John knew he didn't want that. How? How do I run from that? "You can't. Your life is not in your hands. You could be left to die, or-" It peered through the hole in the smoke it had made. "Ah. But I see that won't be a problem." John felt a tug at his being. Back down. He gaped at the being of light. He felt sympathy from it. "Your Sherlock loves you very much." It said, almost regretfully. John felt another, stronger tug, as below his body took in more and more of Sherlock's life giving blood, which was no longer poison to him, now that he had less blood of his own for it to interact with. John wanted to talk to the being of light more, wanted to feel its light more. But it just turned to him and smiled and said "Chase you there, my dear John." John's body sputtered and hacked and drank more and more, but he was breathing again, his eyes moving behind his eyelids. And then for John, there was no more fog, and he was no longer above.   


	21. Chapter 21

Sherlock embraced the spike of pure relief he felt when John's body choked and began breathing more deeply, using his free hand to pet the sweaty hair away from John's face, his touch achingly tender. He had to switch arms again, opening a new wound in the first arm. As he did so he glanced up at Moriarty, his eyes hard and cold and so full of hate. He silently promised this man his death. In the end, when John awoke and Sherlock saw that look of hate directed at his own person, Sherlock would promise him he'd kill Moriarty for this, and then they would most likely go their  own ways, since Sherlock had no doubt that this would be what drove John away from him. Perhaps, just maybe, John would stay around long enough for Sherlock to explain things about his new nature. He didn't want him dead, after all. That had been the whole point of this. Sherlock's face grew even paler than normal as his blood was drained out of him, and his body took to swaying back and forth again.

Once his body had enough life in it to react, his hands came up and pulled Sherlock's wrists, pulling them down until John could really suck the blood out of Sherlock himself. When he's eaten his fill his lips stayed on Sherlock's wrists fondly for long moments, and then gently mouth and fingers slipped off. Now, for an entire day, John would sleep soundly while the changes went in to affect. Jim was very, very smug about what had just gone down. "Perfect!" He said, loving the way Sherlock glared at him. "Your little pet is going to be angry at you for this one." He said with an almost wistful sigh. His eyes lit up on Sherlock. "But that pain will take a while to kick in. Maybe some more now, for you?" Jim lifted his gun and shot with no warning, the expression on his face never changing. The bullet was not silver, not deadly. Instead it was made out of the same material as the gun. It melted into Sherlock's flesh, lodged there, and then burned. Jim got him in his right shoulder.

Sherlock shrieked, a noise that would have any normal person clawing at their ears with their hair on end. He toppled backwards, scrabbling frantically at his shoulder, all the while howling in pain and shaking. If he weren't in such intense pain he would be analyzing his reaction, cataloguing it, trying to figure out what the bullet was made of. As it stood, however, all he could think about was how his shoulder felt like it was on fire and being torn apart at the same time. Amazingly no tears fell from his eyes, but the noises he was making were agonized enough to make up for it. Kill me, he thought. Kill me, if only to make it stop. Through the haze of fire and pain he wondered if he would be able to move his shoulder anymore. Normal bullet wounds he could easily heal, but this was nowhere near normal. Would he be scarred, then, for the rest of his long life, like John? Perhaps that life wouldn't be so long now. His body shook and he stared up in rage at Moriarty, vision gone blurry from agony.

Moriarty walked up to Sherlock, knowing that the man couldn't hurt him in that kind of pain, even if he could in the first place. "Gooooo~d!" He cackled, grinning from ear to ear. "Should I pump a few more in you?" He asked pointing the barrel of the gun at Sherlock, just to see him flinch. Instead of shooting, he dragged the barrel of it down the side of Sherlock's face, adding to the cauterized mess there. "There, how does that feel?" He asked. "Of course, now that he's a vampire, this could hurt John too. But he's asleep, so where's the fun in that? Unless I put a bullet in him now too, for him to wake up to...." He pointed the barrel of the gun at John, now.

Sherlock snarled, a weak little sound that wouldn't inspire fear in a kitten. "Leave him alone," He panted, his face twitching in pain as he spoke. "You've done enough to him, haven't you? Leave him!" He packed as much vehemence and command in to the last, which, considering his state, was sadly little. His mind was shrieking at him over the screaming of pain, telling him he needed to protect his vulnerable mate. He was just as vulnerable, however, and could do nothing but curse up at the madman wielding the gun. Sherlock tried to sit up, in to a more defensible position, but his shoulder roared its disapproval and he collapsed backwards again, a hissed oath leaving his lips.

Moriarty gave Sherlock the kind of look one gave to a kitten that was performing some wacky antics. That 'awww, aren't you cute and adorable and stupid!' look. Then he put a bullet in John too, in the meaty part of his leg. The hissing of John's flesh as it slowly began to melt away was audible. Moriarty sighed like he'd just gotten a good drink after working a long day. "There. Now both of you can share your pain." He reached in to pinch Sherlock's cheek. The burned one. "Looks like my work here is done!" He said with a stupidly happy look on his face. "You're damned right you are." came a voice that Sherlock could no doubt pick out anywhere. Moriarty was yanked away from Sherlock, golden, shining cords wrapping him up and restraining him fully. And the person holding said rope was none other than diminutive, frail, adorable Mrs. Hudson. She did not look happy. "We don't do this to God's creations, Jim." She said, voice thundering and mad. Jim made a sound like he was hacking up something distasteful. "Sherlock is not one of God's creations! They're vampires!" Mrs. Hudson sighed and shook her head. "And yet you have committed more heinous crimes than they have. Are you not one of God's creatures?"

Sherlock winced in sympathy for John's leg, and he clenched his fist, enraged even more than he had been. His mouth dropped open, first at the pain of having his injured cheek pinched, then in pure shock at seeing his landlady holding Moriarty so effectively. At the moment his thoughts finally unified, broke above the pain, to repeat one thing over and over, and that was 'holy shit Mrs. Hudson.' "What...?" Was all he was able to gasp out, voice hoarse with his weakness and the pain of his wound. What in the bloody fuck was going on? Sherlock reached out, slowly, to lace his fingers with John's. He drew comfort from the pulse he could feel, even if John was still unconscious.

Mrs. Hudson looked at him and gave a disapproving little huff. She raised a hand and both of the 'bullets' flew out of them. John's vampire flesh, as new as it was, and still infused with the beloved splendor of a human, began to heal itself. Sherlock's did not. "I'm sorry dear, I really did try to make it here more quickly, but Jim here had the ether over this cottage all blocked up." She gave him a sympathetic look at his shoulder, which at least was not being burned from the inside anymore. "I'm sorry about that, I did what I could. I've got some herbal soothers back at Baker Street that might help it a bit. It’ll scar, though. Your face as well."

Sherlock forced his body in to responding to his commands until he was at least sitting up. The free hand clutched at his shoulder while he stared upwards. "Who are you? No, no, more importantly, what are you, Mrs. Hudson?" Now that the bullet was gone and not continuing to burn him, he was able to shove aside the pain a bit, just enough to begin thinking rationally again. His eyes scanned over Moriarty and the ropes that bound him, and then he took in every detail about Mrs. Hudson. He needed to know what was going on. He had been floundering too much during this entire encounter, and it rankled his pride.

Mrs. Hudson smiled sweetly at him. "We're angels." She explained, as she reached for Moriarty's gun. The minute she touched it it vanished, up through the ether and beyond. "Who I am, though, is your landlady." She sighed softly. "I had to keep an eye on you. Vampires that live within a clan don't tend to upset the natural order of things. You eat regularly, you reproduce, sometimes you create others like you. That's just the circle of life. It's when you get a vampire alone, living by its own ways, that there's the potential for them to do bad things with the powers they have." She looked pointedly at Jim. "Clearly, the same goes for angels. You aren't the one I should have been watching. You, Sherlock, were minding your own business, not even murdering to feed... All you were doing was falling in love." She gave a sad look to John. "I'm sorry for the oversight, dear."

Sherlock worked his jaw several times, as if he were attempting to speak but couldn't think of anything to say, before he snapped it closed. It wasn't so surprising that they were Angels, but rather that the unassuming little old lady who rented them their flat was one. This was a rather harsh lesson in not underestimating people, wasn't it? Sherlock pulled himself back together, plastering on that facade of cold lines that he used to keep people away. He refused to look back to John, because that would just break his mask again. "I would recommend keeping a much closer watch on him," His lips curled up in a snarl as he motioned with his head towards Moriarty. "Or not. Because I owe him." Already his mind was racing head, formulating ways to kill an Angel. It couldn't be impossible. If he had to, he would go to Mycroft. No matter what, Jim Moriarty would pay for what he did. Sherlock's hand clenched tight around John's.

Mrs. Hudson's face went cold as well. "This one is out of your hands, Sherlock, and you have to accept that. It is an unspeakable crime to kill an angel. Even more unspeakable than the crime Jim committed when he pulled the humanity from those corpses to make a ramshackle soul for your sweetheart." Mrs. Hudson shook her head. "We'll handle him." Mrs. Hudson shoved Jim to the side and he disappeared as well, off to be disciplined in heaven. "Why is it always the young ones that stray?" She wondered out loud, coming up to where Sherlock was to gently check on John, checking his pulse and opening his mouth to see how his canines had begun to grow already. "I remember when Lucifer was young, and he and all his little friends left the Order." She shook her head. "What a shame."

Sherlock's hands twitched with the desperate need to grab ahold of Moriarty, to not let him escape. No, no, no, revenge would be his, not for Heaven to decide! He shook his head and decided to put it to the side for a moment. He was in no condition to do anything, really, so instead he shuffled awkwardly closer to John, watching as Mrs. Hudson opened John's mouth. He winced to see the growing teeth. "He is going to hate me," He whispered, more to himself than to the woman by him. Sherlock completely ignored the fact that she KNEW Lucifer at one time. That was...just too odd for him. There was only so much even his mind could take in in a day.

Mrs. Hudson sighed. "Probably, yes, but you have no done him such a disservice as you think. If left to die, he would not have been able to experience the afterlife. Perhaps, even if it is not the way he wants to live, and even if worldly lives are just blips on the radar of eternity...Living longer will be fulfillment enough for his soul." She ran her fingers, soft and smelling of juniper but so tiny, so fragile, over John's face. "What a shame it is, too. He's very strong, and very loving...The kind of soul that God prefers as part of his flock." She looked up at Sherlock with a question in her eyes. "You do not think you could live if he were to perish?" She asked, honestly curious. Sherlock loved him a great deal if he was willing to face John's wrath.

Sherlock glanced away, hiding from her words and hiding his face from her eyes. She always could read him remarkably well, and before John she was the only human - or so he'd thought, ha - he would accept physical comfort from, even if it was just standing awkwardly while she attempted to hug him. He found he could not lie to her, weather because of her nature or simply because of how kind she had always been to him. "No." His voice was hollow. "I could. But I would not want to." He admitted this freely, despite the fact that it was him admitting to a large and vulnerable weakness.

Mrs. Hudson smiled softly at him. "You are really not an evil creature, Sherlock, and neither is your John." She reached forward and stroked the back of Sherlock's neck gently, hoping to reassure him. "If you need me to, I will have a talk with him, after he's feeling better." She looked him over. "It's not morally reprehensible if you hunt to survive. That is why we haven't struck down your brother or your clan." She shook her head. "Though I doubt John would feel very good about it. Do you think your lady friend at St. Bart’s has enough for the two of you?" Even if they found it difficult to stomach, it wasn't like they could drink from each other. "Perhaps you should call her up, see if she'll deliver for today. She loves you very much as well, and not just because of your looks or your nature." Mrs. Hudson reached up and ruffled Sherlock's hair, even as it was flecked with sweat and blood.

Sherlock found himself staring at the woman, eyes slightly wide. It shocked him, how kind she was being, to someone like him. He shook his head, denying the offer. "No, you don't need to speak to him about it. He will make his own decision. And if Molly does not have enough for us both, I'll do without." No one would be able to call him a bad mate, even if John would surely attempt to break their bond now. He would starve rather than let John go hungry. "I'll teach him how not to kill when he feeds, so that if he never has access to a blood bank or a morgue he will not be forced to kill. John...He should never have to do that." Sherlock was aware of how John had killed before, but this was different. "Mrs. Hudson, I...I must thank you. For helping us." He tipped his head back slightly, leaning in to her touch. He would much rather it was John trying to comfort him, but he would accept Mrs. Hudson.

Mrs. Hudson looked at him seriously. "Absolutely not." She said softly. "You will both find a way to remain well fed." Her voice was that of a mother chastening her children rather than one of an all-powerful being giving a command, but that didn't mean there was any room to argue with her. She continued to rub her hands over his head. It wasn't a deep exploration of his soft hair like John did, but it was the same place he would always touch Sherlock. "And you're welcome. I feel somewhat responsible for you, having taken the position as your guardian." She shook her head. "Why don't you take a little bit of time here to get yourself cleaned up- I'll take care of the bodies and call you a cab. Just glamour the driver, and he won't mind that John is asleep." She stood from her crouched position like her hips were made of steel. "I'll meet you back at Baker Street." She wasn't finished helping them. John would be weak for a while, after all.

Sherlock wondered absently what he'd done to get himself a real life guardian angel as he snatched up a tissue box from one of the living room end tables. He began to clean the blood from himself as well as possible, then gently wiped the excess from around John's mouth. "Thank you again, Mrs. Hudson. I will see you there, then." He sat for a while, simply staring at John's face while waiting. He looked up much later as his ears caught the faint sound of a vehicle.  Sherlock put a hand behind John's head, slid the other arm under his knees, and lifted John up bridal-style. Normally such a feat would be nothing for him, but from the blood loss and the wound in his shoulder, he swayed from side to side dangerously, clutching on to John's body as if that'd help him stay steady on his feet. His head swam. "Gnngh," He groaned. Sherlock took stumbling steps towards the exit and out to the cab. The driver was startled, jumping out with a worried look on his face, but the instant Sherlock caught his eye his expression became blank and dazed and he got back in to the driver’s seat. Sherlock followed immediately after, nearly collapsing in the back seat.

John, unconscious as he was, seemed to gravitate close to Sherlock. Whether it be when Sherlock held him or when he was leaning against him in the cab, his head fell to Sherlock's shoulder. He was drawn to Sherlock like a child to its mother. Sherlock had made him the way he was, after all. He yearned to be close to him. When the cab finally came to Baker Street, Molly was there, waiting on the front steps, in a sensible sweater and flats, hopping up in a moment to help Sherlock with John. She could see Sherlock swaying. "I brought you something to drink." She said, helping him with John. "And for him when he wakes up, if he needs it." She was only concerned with their health, but her eyes sparkled with concern and sympathy for the state of things.

Sherlock nodded, not even fighting back the relief he felt at seeing her. "Thank you," He rasped quietly, so quiet she might not have even heard it. With Molly's help they got John up the stairs and in to the flat. Sherlock placed him ever so carefully on the couch, brushing back his hair with a tender, trembling hand. "Drink," He prompted Molly, not even looking away from the other man. He all but snatched the bag of blood from her as she offered it, puncturing the plastic with a fang and then downing the entire thing, despite the taste. A bit of color finally began to return to his face, and the multiple wounds on his arms began to heal, the skin creeping back together, itching like mad.

Molly had brought several bags, both from the newly departed, and one or two nicked from donors. It wasn't immoral. The blood wasn't going to waste, it was being used by those who needed it, just as it was intended. She wasn't turned off by Sherlock's rushed and brutish manner. Sherlock only had eyes for John, as though he had to enjoy his last moments with him.  Before long, Mrs. Hudson came up with a full tea service for them. She forced a cup of tea into Sherlock's hands, and then sat beside Molly, offering it to her. "So, now all there is to do is wait patiently for John to return, yes?" Molly colored a bit. She'd done her part, helping with John, and after she finished her tea, she excused herself, getting up and gathering her things.

Sherlock glanced away from John just for a moment, to sweep his eyes over Mrs. Hudson, looking for any changes, but there were none, and to eye Molly as she stood to leave. "Thank you." He repeated from before, this time now definitely loud enough for her to hear. As soon as he was done he went back to staring at John, kneeling there as if he were maintaining a coffin-side vigil. It very well might be his last moments with the other man, as Molly thought. There was no telling how John would react. Sherlock's hopes were not high, not at all. He fully expected John to rage at him for a while, and then to deflate eventually in utter disappointment, and then to leave in hate. That was what Sherlock had resigned himself to, the moment he'd pressed his bloody wrist to John's lips.

Molly smiled at him to let him know that his thanks were appreciated, and then left. Mrs. Hudson knew that the thank you was the most appreciation Sherlock had ever shown her. Mrs. Hudson didn't leave. She sat vigil with Sherlock, letting him look over John for as long as he needed, keeping the man company and acting as an open ear if Sherlock felt like he needed to talk. She was very wise, after all. After several hours of John sleeping away, his body changing, Mrs. Hudson decided to break the silence, hoping that Sherlock's voice would follow, letting out what emotions he might not know how to share. "How is your shoulder, dear?" She asked, pushing herself up with the limberness of someone a quarter of her age and twice her height, and then coming around to place her hands atop Sherlock's shoulders, far from the wound but a touch nonetheless, meant to comfort him.

Sherlock rocked back, still keeping contact with John at all times, but now leaning in to Mrs. Hudson's warmth. She seemed to radiate comfort to Sherlock, and as loathe as he was to admit it, that was something he was in desperate need of at the moment. "It aches, a dull throbbing that I am able to ignore, but it's still there. I don't know if it'll stop aching. It should have healed but...It won't." His jaws clenched tight. "My face has not healed either." He gestured with one hand to mess of skin that traced from his temple down to his jaw. "John was lucky. His leg should be fine." His eyes slipped closed for a moment. He was just so tired. "I am at fault for this, Mrs. Hudson. For everything. He wouldn't be here like this if it were not for me." His voice was shaky, despite how hard he tried to keep it steady.

She rubbed back and forth over the thin but expensive fabric of his shirt, her hands small but as comforting as large, warm hands might have been. "I'm sure the pain will go away, with time, though I'm not so sure about the wounds. Angelbone is no joke to creatures of the night." She did not have the ability to heal him, or she gladly would. "As for John...He is not lucky. His injured leg would be the least of his worries. He is an abomination with a kind soul, and as such, his existence is invalid. He is real, in flesh, in soul, in mind, but he is not accepted as such by the natural order of things. He is made of scraps." They were pretty scraps, at least. Strong ones. Brave ones. "You are right and wrong. He would not be here at all if it weren't for you, living this life that is all he will ever know, but it is not your fault. If not you, Jim would have found another of your kind to torment."

Sherlock growled softly, to hear John spoken of in that way. Scraps? Moriarty had pieced John together from scraps? Hell of a job he'd done, then, because John Watson was perfect. "He's not an abomination," He corrected her, making an effort not to sound harsh. "He's different, and unique, and he may not be accepted, but John Watson is not an abomination, Mrs. Hudson. He is the kindest man I've ever met." His hand tightened its hold again on John's own. Sherlock told himself he should stop talking now, because he was starting to get overtly emotional. That was never good, for anyone.

"Your love and your loyalty are unshakable, Sherlock." Mrs. Hudson observed, shaking her head. John WAS an abomination, in the eyes of God, a Frankenstein creation, a broken doll made out of bits and pieces.  It was just the way things were.  But Sherlock was right.  He was kind, and he was good, and he was different. "God would be lucky to have John among his fold." She told Sherlock. "But he has rules, and we don't question them." Or they ended up like Lucifer. "The only thing to do is hope he enjoys his life, because it is the only existence he may ever know." Her hands began to rub up his arms and over his upper back. She was simply imparting the truth. "That John has you may be the luckiest thing he can hope for. Someone to take care of him and keep him from being alone the long centuries that he will live."

Sherlock exhaled, his shoulders finally losing the hunched, tight posture they'd taken ever since he'd lugged John out of that house. It was cruel, the cruelest thing he could think of, that someone like John would not be able to get in to Heaven because of Moriarty's sick little game. Even if he had to stalk him from afar, Sherlock would make sure that John lived a good, long life. "If he still wants me around after this, I can promise you that I will never leave him, no matter how long we both may live. I would have stayed by his side even if this had never happened." And he would have. If John had found a woman and decided to leave, Sherlock would have stood by him still, just like he had stood by Watson until the end of his days. The loyalty of his kind was usually only to themselves, but Sherlock knew that he was changed irreparably.

 Mrs. Hudson smiled softly. "Yes. Rather rare, for a vampire, isn't it? To love so much. Especially a human. I was surprised. Not that I couldn't see the potential in the two of you the moment he came up that first day. I did my research just as your brother did, made sure that John checked out. I was surprised by his status, but you two fit together so exquisitely...I knew he could only be good for you." She gave him a pat. "And he has been. Look at you. You're doing so well, Sherlock. You even help people, even if it's just for your own amusement." She shook her head. "I need not ever monitor you at all. But I'm glad I did. Even if I arrived too late, I was able to stop Jim."

Sherlock slumped down, leaning his good shoulder against the couch, his exhaustion evident. But he would not leave John's side tonight, not for anything, nothing at all. "Yes. We might both have been dead if not for you, Mrs. Hudson." He gave her one of his rare, fond smiles, that so few people ever got to see. Sherlock decided to ignore the rest of what she'd said, about them fitting so well. It just reminded him that Moriarty had been the one to design John in the first place. He certainly did not want to think of that at the moment. Instead he closed his eyes again, and tried to relax. It was going to be a long night, and he wouldn't want to face an enraged John in the morning with shoulders kinked from being tense for hours.

The landlady watched Sherlock collapsing. "Why don't you get to bed, and I'll bring John in. It will be just a quick hop through the ether, after all, and John's already quite acquainted with it." It wouldn't kill Sherlock to get some sleep, or at least be able to lie down and close his eyes. Mrs. Hudson knew he wouldn't be leaving John's side any time soon. Anyway, just because Jim had designed John to be perfect for Sherlock didn't make it any less true. Just because it was set up that way didn't make it less important because it was not by chance. John's feelings were real. All of him was real, and so was Sherlock.  It made sense.

Sherlock nodded, standing up with a quiet little groan as it jarred his shoulder. He had no plans to sleep, but it would be nice to stretch out on a bed and doze with John beside him. He paused. "Are...you sure you do not mind?" He asked Mrs. Hudson. It was not normal for him to take others in to account, but he felt he definitely owed this woman more than simply being aware of her feelings. He owed her his life. More importantly, he owed her the life of his mate. Sherlock would probably do anything she asked at the moment, if only to pay that debt back.

Mrs. Hudson smiled softly. "I'm your guardian angel, dear. And now John's too. I do not mind- This is my job and I am glad to do it." She opened her arms and took Sherlock into a warm embrace. Her head only came to his collarbone, but that didn't much matter. Her warmth was enough to make it feel like it was much more substantial than it physically was. "As an angel I have plenty of love to give. And I love you. The both of you." She shook her head against his chest. "You can repay me by doing right by John. Don't be an idiot about this- Do what will help him the most, even if neither of you thinks it is what he wants."  She trusted Sherlock with John, even as she knew Sherlock would make mistakes. It would be alright.

Sherlock lifted his arms awkwardly around the landlady, not really participating in the hug so much as taking in the warmth and comfort she offered. "You're quite wonderful, Mrs. Hudson." He murmured in to the top of her hair, his voice weighted down with his sincerity. He didn't really understand why an Angel would decide to be his guardian, as he was a creature of the night and he had certainly killed rather a lot before, but he was willing to just accept it for now. "I will certainly try." He patted her on the shoulder, the motion even more awkward than his attempted hug. "I'll just...Ah...I'll just go to the bedroom, yes?" He gently loosed himself from her arms, a light blush staining his cheeks. Emotions. Bah. Sherlock turned and wandered in to the bedroom, nearly collapsing on to the soft mattress, almost forgetting to kick off his shoes and take off his bloodied jacket beforehand.

She let him disentangle himself, thinking his awkwardness was really rather sweet. She was his guardian angel because she was meant to be watching him, at first, but now she was such to make sure he was okay, that he stayed okay and was not tampered with further. She also saw it as important to keep an eye on poor John. She flicked her eyes to the man lying prone on the couch. Almost the moment Sherlock fell into bed, John appeared, making an indentation of his body on the blankets and pillow he occupied. He was curled up comfortably on his side now, facing Sherlock. He could not hate Sherlock in his sleep. Sherlock could hear Mrs. Hudson cleaning up her tea tray and leaving 221B.

Sherlock blinked in surprise as John appeared. Well. That was quick. Sherlock shifted closer, feeling ridiculously guilty for it, and laced their fingers again. He exhaled, trying to relax in to the bed. He was half terrified of the morning, of what might happen then. The other half was excited, wondering with a giddy glee if John would finally be able to feel the bond, to feel what it was like for Sherlock. Then he remembered that John would probably want to break it. Sherlock spent the night with his thoughts in a snarl, chasing themselves round and round until he was completely mentally worn out. Finally he just closed his eyes and dropped in to a deep meditation, the way Mycroft had taught him when he was young, to block out all stimuli, even his own mind.

And all night, John slept. It was a nice sleep, particularly deep, but dreamless. It was completely restful, which was good, because John's body needed it. And then in the morning, he woke up. Waking up was something he did so often that he didn't think of it at all. He felt Sherlock huddled close to him, and he gripped his hand gently, and he rumbled, "Good Morning." He was feeling strange, still tired but no longer sleepy, and...Good. Better than he'd felt in a while. He felt strong and whole and he felt like he could hear better and smell better...But none of that had quite hit him yet. There was only the lazy haze of morning to take in at the moment.

Sherlock came very close to jerking off of the bed in surprise at that voice rumbling so close to him. Sherlock's eyes flew open and he turned only his head to look John in the eye. He didn't respond, didn't blink, didn't even breath. He simply waited, preparing for when John would remember the events of yesterday. Instead of moving or speaking, he allowed himself to devour the sight of John like a starving man, or perhaps more like a man who knew he might never see food again. The hand wrapped around John's own turned vice-like.

John gasped. Sherlock's hand around his, squeezing tight, and John's recognition of it as his beloved, was enough to trigger the mating bond right away. He shivered as he felt Sherlock's emotions in his head, tumultuous and needy, terrified and remorseful all at once. With that came the realization of what had happened, what Sherlock had done, and what he was now. John opened his eyes, ready to see Sherlock and give him a piece of his mind, but his newborn eyes could not take the light in the room, even though it really was only moderate lighting. "Fuck!" He hissed, throat raw. Every bit of his psyche rejected his nature the way he was now, and he winced. "Damnit, Sherlock..." He said next, and as the realization hit him that he had an eternity left to live, that he had to live it as a monster, that he might need to kill to survive- Tears pricked his eyes. "I can't believe you! I _told_ you!" How hard was it to not bleed your entire circulatory system into someone else's mouth?! John noticed over and over things that were different. Eyes. Ears. Nose. Muscles. He wasn't human any longer. And he wasn't bonded like a human anymore either, he was bonded like a vampire to Sherlock. Something about that seemed too right, seemed perfect, exactly the way it was meant to be, and wonderful, because his mate was there and he could take care of him now when he was so vulnerable. Yes, that was a splendid idea. But he wouldn't tell Sherlock about the bond. He'd live with it and never ever let Sherlock know.

Sherlock's silence broke and he began babbling, pulling away from John while he did, dropping his hand even though it physically hurt in his chest for him to do so. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, he had a gun to your head and he would not let me move mine, and then you were nearly dead and you didn't deserve that, and the next thing I know I'm half going insane and biting in to my own wrist, and then he shot me, right in the shoulder with a gun that was worse than silver, then he shot you in the leg, then Mrs. Hudson showed up - good lord, John, she's an Angel, our guardian Angel - and she took him away," He couldn't stop his babbling. He was just trying to fill the space for as long as possible, to stall as much as he could before John said those three words that would break Sherlock completely. Sherlock was waiting for John to say 'I hate you'. Because he would understand, he really would, and he would accept it, but there was no way he'd be able to ignore the way it would ruin him.

John didn't even try to understand him. Sherlock wasn't making any sense anyway, talking about Mrs. Hudson and terrible guns. John could remember how he died, though. That much was true. Exasperated, broken, John rolled onto his back, leaving his eyes closed. "Sherlock. My last moments, my last words, those were for you. Was it not enough for you? To know that I loved you to my dying breath? Did it mean so very little to you that you had to bring me back to have me say it more?" He made disgusted noise, and Sherlock could feel that disgust from him. "I was human, and even if I was dead and even if me being dead didn't count for anything-" He didn't stop to consider how he knew that, not yet. "-That was the way I wanted to be! I _don’t_ want to live like this and I told you _to leave off_. I can't believe you'd disrespect my wishes like this! My _last_ wish!"

Sherlock stood from the bed and began pacing from the farthest point from John, as if he could physically distance himself from the disgust he was feeling. It didn't work, of course. "I know, John, I know, but you have to understand," Sherlock bit his lip and his shoulders sagged from their hunched, defensive posture in to a position of pure defeat, "My mate was dead and I wasn't in my right mind, my head was swimming with your blood, and Moriarty's voice was hypnotizing, telling me that you have suffered, and you couldn't get in to heaven because of what he did, and he said that you could still be happy, with an eternity to find someone to make you happy-" Sherlock broke off, having to clear his throat so he didn't say anything else, something he would most definitely regret later. He needed to stop babbling anyway. "I'm sorry," He repeated instead, and let his eyes fall closed, as if he were a criminal waiting for his execution. In a way, he was. And if John decided he wanted a real execution…Well. By this point, Sherlock would probably stretch out his neck for him and allow it to happen.

John shook his head. "So you just got manipulated? That easily?" He sounded desperate, desperate for there to be another answer, another reason why Sherlock would have damned him to this. "You just turned me because you were too weak to resist? Thought you were stronger than that, Sherlock." It was his dying fucking wish! How could Sherlock have fucked that up!?  John threw an arm over his eyes because even with them closed the light was too bright. "Who exactly am I going to find, anyway, Sherlock? I don't want to be with a vampire. And I can't be with a human because they'll die. The only one I even ever WANTED to be with was you, and you-" John couldn't stay with him. Not like this. Not after forcing this on him. "Well. That's not going to happen." His voice was soft. He didn't enjoy telling Sherlock that they were quits. He hated it. He still wanted to be with him, his heart called out to him desperately, possessively. But he couldn't be with the man who had made him into a monster.

Sherlock shook his head. "It wasn't just that, no. He was persuasive, yes, and he planted the idea in my mind, but he did not manipulate me. It was my own choice. I did this to you, and I'm sorry." Sherlock took in a deep breath, trying to steady himself as he heard the last bit. He knew it was coming, so he'd had an entire night to try and steel himself against it. It still hurt. His mate was telling him it was over, of course it bloody fucking hurt. Sherlock licked his lips, eyes still closed, because he couldn't bear to look at John and see him right now, not while he was losing him. "I know." He was ashamed that his voice was strained. "Before- before you leave, will you allow me to- to teach you? It will be hard, in the beginning, but I can teach you how not to kill if you get desperate enough to hunt. Otherwise, I will give you all my contact information for blood banks and morgues in the know. You can go to Molly, if you'd like. I'll find another." Sherlock would much rather John go to somewhere simple, and Molly would be a great help. Sherlock had been doing this for years, and finding and forming a new contact would be a hassle, but not as hard for him as it might be for John. And the most important part was that John was fed without having to kill anyone. When Sherlock turned him, he'd hoped John would never, ever be forced to do that. He wasn't the type to be able to do such a thing and then get over it, like almost all of the vampires Sherlock knew.

John nodded. "I was going to ask you to anyway. I'm not staying, but I'm going to live here until I think I can manage on my own." He made a scoffing noise. "It's not like I don't have time to spare." He rolled his eyes. Perhaps he would take Sherlock up on his offer and take Molly. Surely, she wouldn't mind.  And Sherlock could fend for himself. John just hoped he could manage stomaching blood that wasn't from Sherlock. He didn't want to be dependent on him, not like that, and not at a time like this when he could hardly stand being in the same room with him. Or maybe, he would just put a silver slug in his brain and be done with it, the way he was supposed to.

Sherlock nodded. "Yes. Okay. I'll just...I'll leave you alone, then. I'll go write down several addresses for you, blood banks and such. Just in case." His muscles locked, however, against him exiting the room. His body didn't want to leave its mate, and it was trying to stop him. Sherlock cleared his throat once more, took one last long, lingering look at John, and then forced himself from the room. He made it to the living room before he collapsed down on the couch, holding his head in his heads and just staring at the floor in a bit of a catatonic state. Oh, how royally he'd fucked everything up now. His chest hurt, and he didn't know how to make it stop. Obviously this was why he'd gone so long without attempting to find someone else to love. It always went wrong, and it always hurt in the end. He hated it. What was wrong with him that he had lost both of the people he'd loved?

John heard the hesitation, and that would have been enough, but now he could feel Sherlock's anguish and his loneliness. It hurt, to feel his mate hurt this way, and John shivered. This was just terrible. And it wouldn't go away. He wouldn't ask Sherlock to break to bond...He couldn't bring himself to do that, but he would keep his end a secret, and he would stay as far from Sherlock as he could, as soon as he could. He still loved Sherlock, with all of his heart. There wouldn't be anyone else, of this John was sure. If he was lucky, he'd find friends...somehow. He wanted to be with Sherlock, wanted to live with him and spend eternity with him...But he couldn't stand to do that, not when Sherlock has resurrected him just to make him hate every bit of himself. In this way, he was no better than Moriarty.


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I ache for these two. Why, oh why, are Taylor and I so cruel to them...(because it's fun, shh)

After a while of just sitting and staring at the ground, Sherlock finally stood and snatched up a loose piece of paper. He scribbled several addresses down, and names attached, and set it on the table for John to find. Then he grabbed his coat, threw it on, and took the steps down two at a time. Perhaps the best thing to do at the moment would be to leave John truly alone, to try and adapt to his changed nature, or at least to rage in the flat without the fear of anyone hearing him. Mrs. Hudson might, but she would turn a blind eye to it, certainly. He wandered around, hands clenched tight in his pockets, but head held high as if it were any other day. Sherlock had no specific place in mind, and so he just walked and walked until the dawn had faded in to afternoon.

John found that waking up from the change was extremely difficult to do alone, with no one there to help you and teach you the ropes. It took John a full half an hour to just be able to open his eyes. Every second a large part of him wished for his mate to come back, to shield him in the darkness until he was ready. The same thing happened when he tried to stand and walk and found his legs to be so much stronger than they'd ever been, and it was like walking in low gravity. He couldn't help but trip and stumble, and his balance was in a different place entirely. The entire ordeal was unspeakably frustrating, and Sherlock could feel it from him even so far away. John could feel Sherlock, too, feel how much pain HE was in, and he hated that as well. He also knew it wasn't going anywhere. John thought about it for a moment. He knew exactly where Sherlock was. That was odd.  John sighed, and just took up residence on the couch until his reanimator came back.

Sherlock knew he should have stayed, a silent presence ready to offer assistance, but that close proximity would have ended with him doing something stupid, like taking John's hand and trying to kiss him, or something like that. It was better that John stumbled around and learned by trial and error, instead of using Sherlock as a support. After all, Sherlock wouldn't be around for him much longer. He was a firm believer in sink or swim. It was breaded in to him, really. Eventually, though, he turned from where he'd been watching a pond ripple and made his way back to Baker Street. He didn't stop outside the door, or hesitate before entering, because that would not be like him, but he'd certainly wanted to. The first and only thing he said once he was inside with his coat and scarf placed meticulously on the hook, was, "Are you hungry?" It was different for everyone, but eventually John would need to eat. Molly had left several bags of donor blood in the fridge. Hopefully it wouldn't be as disgusting to John as it was to Sherlock himself, because Sherlock highly doubted John would like to drink from Sherlock, even if Sherlock were fully recovered from draining himself the night before.

John's heart gave a flutter and a terrible hurtful ache all at the same time when he felt Sherlock turn around and come back home, and then again when he entered the flat. John could almost feel his own emotions – loneliness, frustration - in a feedback loop through Sherlock. "You idiot." He hissed to himself, just before Sherlock came in the door to find John curled up in a ball on the cushions, head resting on his knees and burgundy cardigan over his shoulders, because was it just him or was being a vampire COLD!? No wonder Sherlock wore that great coat and scarf all the time. When Sherlock asked his question, as aloof as he had ever seen him, John compulsively licked his tongue over his teeth. No fangs. Yet. "No." He said softly. "I'm just absolutely fucking miserable, that's all, and I'm not sure I'll feel better once I've 'eaten'."

Sherlock just nodded, his face a mask made up of carefully blank lines. "Alright." His voice was just as blank, and the only way John would know he was not seemingly this heartless is because he could feel Sherlock's sorrow and guilt. "Let me know when you are. I'd recommend drinking it cold. You'd think warming it up would be better, more natural, but reheated blood is simply foul." Or any blood that wasn't John's at the moment, really. Sherlock turned away, gliding in to the kitchen to get a bag out of the fridge for himself. Two bags in two days would usually leave him bloated, especially after he had drained John just the day before, but the process of turning somebody had left him with symptoms a bit like dehydration in humans. He carefully squeezed out half the bag in to a clean thermos, to be put back in with the bag after he was done with it. Sherlock grimaced before bringing it to his lips. To his surprise it tasted...normal. Not the best, because there was a lingering taste of plastic, but not the disgusting flavor he'd been expecting. Finally. Sherlock took a long gulp, licking his lips after he was done.

John pointedly did not watch him drinking from the couch. Was that all Sherlock had to teach him? Was that blood not straight from a human was foul unless chilled? John couldn't walk in a straight line. He had a headache because of how sensitive the light was and how loud the pipes were when one could actually hear, and the entire flat smelled foul as a result of Sherlock's experiments, in a way that he'd just been getting used to as a human.  He didn't know anything about what he was now, not a thing. He didn't know how to glamour anyone or how to use his new body. He hardly knew how to manage Sherlock's presence in his head. "Is that all you're helpful for?" He asked with a miserable sigh. "Letting me know the most palatable way to drink human blood?" He shook his head where it lay still on his knees. Terrible. This was simply terrible.

Sherlock shoved everything back in to the fridge and made his way back in to the living room, dropping lightly down in to what he'd quickly come to refer to as John's chair in his head. "I was waiting for you to ask me. I can't help you if you do not tell me what you want help with. I've never turned anyone, John, and I was born to this. I don't know how it is for you right now." His hands curled in to fists where they were sat in his lap. It would be a horrible idea to reach out and touch John right now, no matter how much he wanted to. He hated seeing John miserable. There was a spike of very intense guilt. "I believe, to most of it, you will adjust. The noise, the smells, they'll fade over time and be less...abrasive." His voice was still cool, face still locked down, despite his emotions.

John shook his head. "Is it like this for you all the time, though? So loud and bright?" He swallowed. Sherlock had never had to relearn how to use his own muscles or his own eyes. Perhaps he really was close to useless in these matters... John knew what would be truly helpful to him now. If he could curl up in Sherlock's arms and let Sherlock block out the light and he noise, until the only thing John could hear was Sherlock's heartbeat and the only thing he could smell was Sherlock's skin. He'd teach him how to use his body again through intimacy, through showing him every new centimeter of himself with Sherlock's own eyes or fingers or tongue. Sherlock felt another heavy wave of loneliness from him. "It's giving me a headache." He murmured. "And I'm having trouble walking, too...There's no way to describe it, walking with less resistance, except that I'm completely unable to keep upright."

Sherlock stood and had the lights off in a flash at the mention of his headache, and the curtains of the windows drawn tightly shut in another. "I'm sorry, I didn't think it would affect you like this. No, it's not like that for me. Everything is louder, yes, and more intense, but I'm able to block it out so it is not painful, to only really use it when I want to. Perhaps if you concentrate? Try to push it in to the background?" He really was useless, wasn't he? Sherlock felt another flair of his own guilt and helplessness. Sherlock would have liked to hold John, to rock him back and forth until he'd become accustomed to all of this, until he'd grown used to this new body. But he knew that would never happen. Never again. "As for the walking...I think that can only be solved through practice. Wandering about, relearning your own body." Sherlock bit his lip at John's own loneliness echoing inside of him, merging with his own. At least he is alive, a little voice whispered. At least he has another chance at life.

John took a deep breath, and forced himself to straighten up, giving Sherlock a look at his haggard appearance, his red eyes. "Thanks." He said softly, because the darkness in the flat really did help, and he could still see fine when before he wouldn't have been able to. "I can't just push it away like you say. If I could, I would have by now." He sighed. "And the walking, it's like....I feel as light as a feather, but...All this time I've been blundering around, letting my feet land any way I liked when there's really only one way to land on them RIGHT and I need to learn how to step that way every time. If I stepped at the wrong angle I could adjust but...I instantly do more than I need to, over compensate, and land on the ground."  He was quiet for a minute. "Sherlock... The bloodlust... How bad is it?" He chewed on his lower lip. "I won't be able to operate any longer, will I?"

Sherlock sat back down, staring at John and his broken looking appearance. "As a doctor? No," He answered, voice low and because of that, very soft. "You won't. Especially not in the beginning, because you are so new to this. You wouldn't be able to resist, even fully fed. You may be able to take it up again, eventually, once you'd had some years of practice at resisting. If you're well fed, it's not too bad. You won't feel the need to jump every human you walk past. But if there's an open wound- well. That first night, with your arm, you remember? Even I, with my years of practice, found it very hard to ignore." Sherlock frowned, his mask fracturing a bit. "When your headache leaves you, I'll teach you the other things you'll need to know. How to glamour and such. Hopefully, with time, the sensitivity will fade."

John tried to force down and away the feeling of intense disappointment he felt. He failed, and it went through the bond loud and clear. He let out a shaky breath, and nodded even though that hurt a bit. "It doesn't feel like it's going away any time soon." He said, letting Sherlock know that it might be a while before he could teach him more. He swallowed. He just didn't want Sherlock to leave again. The only thing worse than being sick and inhuman and hurting and feeling all wrong, was being all of that and alone, too. Even if Sherlock just sat nearby, making him angry and sick, that was better than being without him. He'd have plenty of time to do that in the future.

Sherlock's hand lifted on its own, to touch John in any way, to do anything that would help relieve that horrible disappointment he was feeling, but he caught himself at the last moment and shoved his hand back down, hoping that John hadn't noticed, but knowing he would of. Of course he would of, he had a vampire's sight now, he wouldn't miss a motion like that. In a sick sort of way he was thankful for John's headache. It meant Sherlock had a bit more time with John, even if it was only sitting here in the room across from him, unable to touch and unable to really help, emotionally and physically. "It will get better, John, I promise you." He knew this for a fact. Many people have been turned, and they all became used to it eventually. Some even completely embraced it. John would never be like that, Sherlock knew, but he hoped he would at least be able to find happiness somehow.

John did see it, and he wished desperately that Sherlock WOULD touch him. No matter how disgusted he was by the man, he would collapse in his arms and it would be wonderful, exactly what he needed. But that didn't happen, and he gave another, small groan. His mate was so close, but John wouldn't touch him.  Couldn't be close to him. COULDN'T. And at the same time, Sherlock was his creator, the one who brought him life, and John wanted to huddle close and let Sherlock protect and teach him how to survive. And he couldn't do any of that. "I sure hope so, Sherlock." He said softly, closing his eyes. Perhaps what was most overwhelming was that everything was so different, now. His senses, yes, but also his diet, his career, his home, his relationship... He had to start a new, completely different, completely unwanted life.  John thought again that maybe he would just end it. He hadn't meant to live this long anyway. It was a mistake. John shuddered with revulsion at that too. If he died, there wasn't any adventure for him. He would cease to be. Entirely. No afterlife. Just nothingness. John needed something to be the same. To be exactly the same as it had been. He was going to make himself a cup of tea, and it was going to be the most normal damned cup of tea he'd EVER had. He pushed himself off of the couch, and immediately pitched forward.

Sherlock was oblivious to John's inner turmoil for the moment, focused as he was on his own. It was rather ridiculous to be so depressed when this was his own fault, but the emotion still remained when he considered that as soon as John was better, he'd be leaving. As such, he lurched forward to catch John before he'd even really thought about it, ending up in the rather intimate position of him holding John close, one arm hand splayed across his back and the other grasping at John's hip, John's face tilted up an inch from Sherlock's own that was pointed down. He forgot to breathe for a moment, so caught up in the warmth and utter rightness of holding his mate like this. A bit of joy broke through his guilt and sorrow and anger. Sherlock's eyes flicked wildly, taking in every detail of John's face so close up, as if he'd never experienced it before.

John had been expecting to land on the floor, much the way he had when he was alone, but he didn't. He landed several feet away from the ground, and in the warm, strong arms of someone he was meant to be joined with for the rest of eternity, or his death, whichever happened first. John was as breathless from the contact as he was from the fall, and he opened his eyes to see Sherlock's pale, beautiful face hanging close enough to him to cross his eyes. There was revulsion there, because he didn't really want to be anywhere near the man who had disregarded his wishes so blatantly, but that was overshadowed by sheer relief and perfect rightness and a terrible throb of love, not to mention all of Sherlock's feelings which where peeling through him alarmingly. Sherlock could feel all of it. The revulsion, and the massive happiness. He could also feel John's lips against his, when John couldn't help his reaction, arms threading up around Sherlock's neck and kissing him desperately, even at the odd angle.

Sherlock made a startled, intensely happy noise, because while he could feel the revulsion and disgust as clear as day, John's lips were on his own, and that was something he never thought he would experience ever again. Sherlock threw himself entirely in to it, seemingly pouring out his soul in to little nips and deep exploration, tightening his arms on John, but being prepared to let go as soon as John pulled away- and he would, of course, even delirious with the joy of John's lighter emotions, he would not be able to fool himself in to thinking this meant anything permanent. Sherlock's other arm wrapped around John's hips and he pulled, lightly lifting John up so that Sherlock didn't have to lean down so far to kiss him.

John wasn’t in any hurry to end the kiss. He knew that this would be the last one, too. John tried to soak in every bit of what Sherlock was trying to show him, and show Sherlock  return, tried to revel in the feeling of Sherlock's arms around him because they were warm and exactly what he needed to keep him from just falling apart. The kiss couldn't last forever, though, and eventually, John pulled his head away from Sherlock's, turning it to the side, but otherwise not letting go of him. There was long, painful silence for a moment, and then he murmured softly, "There. That wasn't bad, as far as goodbyes go, was it?"

Sherlock didn't reply to John's statement, because if he were to open his mouth now he would say unfortunate things. Instead he gave a tiny little nod of his head, agreeing with John, and backed away, letting his arms fall from their resting place, even though that was the last thing he wanted to do at the moment. Sherlock wished he could have simply held John for a while longer, but once John drew away Sherlock knew it would have been inappropriate. He sighed and went to work on carefully rebuilding his mask, and he starting building up a wall to block out John's emotions to him, and, inadvertently, his own to John, because he simply could not take this any longer. He'd go insane, between his own guilt and John's blame mixed in with both of their bitter feelings of love.

But even so, John wasn't sure he could let go of Sherlock just yet, even once he'd pulled himself to his feet again. He wasn't weak. He was the exact opposite. He just couldn't seem to keep himself upright.  He didn't let go of Sherlock. In fact, he only moved his hand, so that he was now clutching Sherlock's sleeve. "Will you help me into the kitchen?" He asked, because he couldn't think of a better pair of training wheels than Sherlock, who was astoundingly graceful and steady. "I'm making tea. Nice, Normal tea. And you can have some, if you'd like." He still sounded distracted, especially because suddenly, Sherlock's feeling seemed to have cut off. They were not gone, per say, but they were so dampened it was hard to feel them. It felt like a slow block in John's brain and he hated it, but he wouldn't bring it up because then Sherlock would know that they were well and truly mated two ways.

Sherlock nodded, unaware of how John hated the block he was building _because of_ the block. "Of course." Sherlock placed a hand at John's elbow, a neutral position, though the gesture was meaningless as his hand on John still ended up looking rather possessive. Sherlock seemed to be possessive of everything he touched, it was in the way he curled his fingers and the elegant way he held things. He really couldn't help it. "No tea for me, though, thanks." Sherlock was proud that his voice was as steady as it always was, and now that John couldn't feel his emotions so easily, it'd be hard to notice how bothered he was at the moment. Sherlock was still rather stuck in that kiss from moments ago. Giving himself a mental shake he gently lead John in to the kitchen, eyes watching intently just in case John should suddenly pitch forward again, or place a foot wrong and fall. He was only worried about John's safety, he told himself. That was all. He was most definitely not looking for another excuse to have John in his arms.

John wouldn't be able to keep himself upright if it was just Sherlock's hand on his elbow. Instead, he ripped his elbow away and he linked their arms instead. He wanted to feel solid. He had to readjust himself a little bit every few steps, and the learning curve was very gradual, but he did seem to be doing better and better as he went on. He gave Sherlock a look that said not to go anywhere, and he leaned against counters as he worked, putting together tea like a champ. While he waited for it to steep, he drew himself to a standing position just so that he could. At length, he brought his eyes up to Sherlock. "I love you, Sherlock. That didn't change." He didn't seem happy about it, though.

Sherlock's eyes followed John about the room as he worked on his ever important cup of coffee, lips fighting him to curl up in to an amused little smile, but they darted away from John's gaze when he turned to look at him. "Don't," He said, harsher than he'd meant to. He couldn't listen to John say that to him right now, not when they'd be parted soon. "Don't say that." The wall he'd been building around John's emotions clamped down firmly, because he certainly didn't want to know how John would feel after that statement. It could be taken in a completely wrong way. "I just- can't." He finished lamely, not even trying to explain himself, to make sure John understood that it wasn't because he didn't reciprocate, just that it was simply too much for him. But he didn't say that, and instead he shifted awkwardly from foot to foot, a motion that was odd for the man who was always so still or graceful while he was in thought.

John winced and looked back down again. He was hurting Sherlock with his words. He didn't need to feel him through the bond to know that. "Sorry." He said softly. He knew that Sherlock loved him. Whether he said it or not or he could feel it or not it, he knew that. Sherlock had brought him back from the goddamned dead. He shook his head. "I shouldn't have said it. It doesn't change anything." He couldn't forgive Sherlock for what he'd done. He hated this new life, this new existence. He needed to go somewhere, anywhere without Sherlock in it. Even if that felt like it might tear his heart out. "But...It is true."

Sherlock licked his lips and finally turned his eyes back to the other man in the room. "Are you trying to torture me, John? Because if so there are better ways. I have silver chains in my bedroom, knives abundant in the kitchen, and you know there is poison under the sink. You need not attempt to do so with only your words, however effective they are." It was the only reason Sherlock could come up with that John would do this to him, mention his love at this moment when they both knew John couldn't stand being here, being near the monster that turned him in to one of his own. Sherlock took a deep breath, shaking his head ever so slightly. "Just- stop. Please." The word tasted foreign on his lips, but he spat it out anyway.

John's eyes clouded with pain. Sherlock was extremely prideful, and John couldn't imagine him ever letting anyone know that he was hurt so obviously. John was wounding him, and John hated that. And then the sheer ridiculousness of what John was feeling hit him. He looked up at Sherlock, and that pain never left, but anger soon joined it. "Are you guilting me, Sherlock?" He said incredulously. "After what you did!?" He made a choked, scoffing noise. "Sherlock, I love you, those were my last words, my very last ones so you would be alright, so you would _know_ , but they weren't worth anything then, were they? Maybe I should have asked you to keep me human a few more times with my last breath instead! Maybe then you would have listened!" He shook his head. "So now, since you apparently disobeyed my wishes just so you could hear it a few more times, you don't want to hear it because it _hurts_!?" What about the hurt John felt, having to leave Sherlock himself? What about the pain of loneliness he would experience as a vampire alone, what about the pain of hunger and the pain of sunlight? Didn't that matter? They would never have had to be in pain this way, neither of them. John couldn't be blamed for wanting a little bit of revenge. "Sometimes the truth hurts, Sherlock. I bloody well love you! I'm head over heels, madly, crazily, _irrevocably_ in love with you, and now I've got to leave you because I can't possibly stomach being near you for any longer than I absolutely have to. So _live with it_.” He picked up his tea, trying to calm himself, not caring that it was still scalding hot, and took a large mouthful of it. It tasted slightly muted, the way bread tasted muted when you had something very spicy in front of you. John knew this was the way all food would now taste. John felt overwhelmed- If he tried to evade Sherlock he would surely fall, and he couldn't get rid of Sherlock and...And he didn't want Sherlock to go. He hated him, _hated_ him, and he still wanted to be wrapped in his arms and apologized to and kissed softly until he just didn't care anymore.

Sherlock growled softly, a noise that, now that John was a vampire, would set off warning bells. It marked to him that there was another predator in the room, not just John. He didn't want to hear this, even though he knew it was John's right to drag him over the coals if he so wished. Still, he would rather John break out the knives and silver chains. Physical pain was something Sherlock had spent a while learning to deal with, but emotional...He had shunned all emotional contact after Watson, and before that he hadn't done so well with it either. He was not used to things like this, not at all. "I didn't turn you so I could hear you love me, you idiot, I turned you so that you could continue living! You can't get to heaven, John, and your life here was pitifully short. I didn't want you to suffer that ending, you deserved to live, and in my addled state, turning you seemed to be the best way. I've apologized, and I will continue apologizing until I die. I will live with it. But do not assume I changed you just for selfish reasons." Sherlock huffed and crossed his arms over his chest, leaning back and away from the other man. He could have stalked out of the room, ended the conversation effectively, but that would leave John to stumble around on his own. No matter how upset Sherlock was, he would not be leaving John to that.

That growl actually made John afraid. He was more or less defenseless still, after all. He didn't think Sherlock would rush him, and he was almost certain Sherlock would never hurt him, but he had provoked him quite a bit. If the bond had been open, Sherlock would have been able to feel it, but now John was good at hiding his fear. It only registered in a slight tension in his upper back. And perhaps it wasn't, hadn't been just a selfish choice but...He remembered. The light, it had said...That Sherlock had loved him very much indeed. John had assumed he'd brought John back so they could be together, that was what that meant, but he'd clearly gotten it wrong. After a long moment of defeated, but still quite angry silence, John spoke again, voice low. "I should have known. It's not as though you haven't done stupid things on my behalf before, thinking it might be best for me." John swallowed. "I wish this was as reversible as then." He left that slightly more friendly thought to hang in the air for a moment. "Anyway, this was a mistake. I would rather be nothingness than have to...." He chewed his lower lip and shook his head, and now it was obvious he was afraid. Then he straightened himself up. He still couldn't meet Sherlock's eyes. "So. Plans. I'll stay here until I'm capable of taking care of myself. Then I'll try to live. I'll soldier on, best I can." He couldn't imagine himself ever even getting used to this, let alone liking it, but there was a possibility he would, wasn't there? Sherlock had gone through all this trouble...The least he could do for the man and his stupid mistake was to try and honor his intentions. "If that doesn't work....I'll just do what should have been done yesterday afternoon."

Sherlock regretted the growl, and his words, as he noticed how affected John was. He would never hurt John, even if he hadn't been Sherlock's mate, but the sound had slipped out, part of his normal habits of vocalization with people who knew his true nature. But it was odd, seeing John fearful. It didn't fit. He tipped his head to acknowledge the thought of John wishing this were reversible, but he didn't say anything. In fact he didn't say anything at all, even through John stating his plans, even though his words hurt to think about. He'd have to accept it, but at the moment he couldn't even think about it. He said nothing until the end bit. Sherlock's eyes darted to John's, wide and alarmed as he understood what was being said, and he took a step forward, arm half lifting to grip at John's own before he remembered he shouldn't touch him. "John-" He didn't know what to say. John wouldn't really kill himself, would he? Sherlock didn't know if he could handle that. "Please. Never do that. Please." His voice choked with his sincerity. He hadn't done this only for John to turn around and take his own life, to force himself in to that everlasting nothingness that awaited him.

Now John looked back up at him, into his silvery, inhuman eyes. "So you'd have me live miserable and alone indefinitely?" He asked, and it was a loaded question, packed with sarcasm and annoyance, and genuine curiosity, and fear. He didn't want to die, but if this life proved to be so unbearable…He'd do it.  In a moment.  He swallowed, and a shiver wracked his body. John was angry at Sherlock, but Sherlock was his mate...John had every right to break down, and if he was going to he didn't mind so much doing it in front of Sherlock. "I don't know if I can do this, Sherlock. I don't know if I can stand drinking human blood to live. I don't know if I can handle being so sensitive to the world around me all the time. I don't know if I can stand hiding in plain sight, or watching everyone I've ever known die because they aren't immortal like I am. I don't know how I'm going to manage not being a doctor. I have no idea what I'm doing or how I'm supposed to _live_ , Sherlock." He shook his head. "If I can't handle it, I'll just stop. It's what I wanted in the first place.  I really do think I would rather die than live this way." He shook his head. "It's not as if I'd ask anyone else to do it for me." He couldn't imagine asking Sherlock to kill him. That would be too cruel.

Sherlock longed to step forward and comfort John, but he didn't. He also longed to make everything better, but he couldn't. "I'd have you try and live happily, John. It may seem impossible at the moment, but give it time." Thinking of John taking his own life made him twitchy, made him want to grab on to John and hold him down until he stopped thinking that way. "You don't have to kill for blood, you know. And drinking it is not so bad. It's not disgusting like you're probably imagining." He was trying to offer consolation, but the only thing he could say was that. Everything else John brought up was just simply true. People would age and die around him, and he would never be able to be a doctor again. John was essentially lost now, and there was no way he would let Sherlock help. He had money enough for the both of them, but Sherlock doubted John would accept any of it once he'd left.

John kept seeing Sherlock's tiny hesitations. They were driving him absolutely mad. "I haven't constructed a force field around myself, you know." He said crossly, before he said anything else. "Either touch me or don't. If I don't want you to, I'll shake you off. It's just not right to see Sherlock fucking Holmes unsure of himself. So stop it." Sherlock was his mate. Even if John was so pissed at him it made him sick, Sherlock was still allowed to touch him. He always was. John swallowed. "Anyway, I am. I'm going to try. This is.. I'd rather you hadn't done this but since you did I will try." John shook his head. "It doesn't matter, Sherlock, it's...It's humans. It's people. Even if it's delicious it doesn't matter." He couldn't expect Sherlock to understand, being born the way he was. John knew lots about blood and he knew he didn't want to drink it. Ever. It made him sick just to think he'd drank Sherlock's.

Sherlock sighed, but reached out to grasp John's shoulder, a light touch he used just to hopefully steady John, not physically but emotionally, glad that he had permission to touch, even if it came with the warning that John would shove him off if he didn't want it. "I know. I understand. But you will get hungry eventually, and I've been reliably informed that most normal people do not prefer the sharp, gnawing edge of hunger." Sherlock retracted his hand. No sense pushing it. He appreciated that John would try, because Sherlock's only hope at the moment was that he would eventually find happiness, no matter where he was or who he was with.

John sighed. "I'm not stupid, Sherlock, I know I'll get hungry. I'll give it a try, I really will. I'm just not sure I can stomach it." Sherlock's hand on his should was immeasurably reassuring, in a way he had trouble explaining to himself. He was disgusted by Sherlock, but he loved him, and the two were fighting so messily, so terribly inside him that it was making his head spin. He couldn't stand this duality! John shook his head. "Hey. Maybe you should remind me of all the good parts of being a bloodsucking monster, huh?" He asked softly, taking a fortifying breath and then taking very careful steps forward.

Sherlock tipped his head to the side, a hint of a smile ghosting over his face. It was the closest to a happy expression he had come to since the night before, disregarding the shocked happiness that had probably taken over his face during the kiss earlier. "The good things? Hmm. Eventually your sensitivity to the heightened hearing and smell will fade and you'll be able to use them. That's very handy. And you can see in the dark; never again will you drop your keys and then not be able to find them because you have no light. The strength can be a bother, but it's handy as well. Not that you need to be much of a fighter, what with that crack shot of yours. That'll be even more formidable now, with the speed with which you can get your gun up and aimed." He'd met several people before who were in the know who had begged his kind to change them so that they might have those benefits. Sherlock blamed that blasted Stephanie Meyer lady. He was certain that these things wouldn't ever please John enough that he would get over the loss of his humanity. Even as a vampire, he was still the most human being Sherlock knew.  "The speed is the best part, for me. I used to run in the woods by my home when I was much, much younger, just to see how fast I could go. It is part of the reason why I was never much interested in cars when they were invented. Much too slow and boring."

John took a deep breath, and let it out. "Great, except I can't use any of those in any real human jobs- Everyone would find out. Even in the military, they'd see my shoulder, and there would be questions." He shook his head. "There's no way for me to make a living with those skills, is there? Basically, I can find my keys, shoot well- at who, exactly? And fight, also who?"  He tried to take a few more, very careful steps forward, slowly making his way back into the living room, leaving his blasted, muted tea. He slipped, and then righted himself. "What the hell am I going to do for the rest of my life, Sherlock? We can't all be consulting detectives."

Sherlock followed after him slowly, still watching to make sure he didn't face-plant in to the ground. He stepped closer after John slipped up, but he didn't try and steer him like he had last time. Best he got used to this quickly. "Most of them get along just fine without stealing my job. Or the British government’s, in Mycroft's case. Vampires from clans are generally better off, because of family with connections, but turned vampires can make their way just fine. Some glamour humans in to giving them their money, others kill for it, but you wouldn't do that, ever. Others tailor specifically to our race and open businesses- there are underground shops and bars and things, if you know where to look. I've not been in any since I left my clan. But the point is...There will be something for you, John." He smiled again, very slightly. "Perhaps you could become an officer like Lestrade. Your new nature would certainly be useful for that."

John considered it. "Perhaps. Couldn't keep any one human job for longer than a few decades, though. They'd notice if I didn't age." John turned to look at himself in the reflection on some window glass. "Well, at least you picked a good age to turn me. Not as dashing as I once was, but..." he reached across to gently rub the side of his face. "Still workable." The tiny smile that had been brewing quickly disappeared. "Not that I'll be using it, but... It's something at least, isn't it?" He couldn't imagine that he would want anyone but his mate. His fangs would appear if he got into any real kind of sex...So he wouldn't anyway, even if he did.

Sherlock nodded. "Yes, you'd have to leave and go someplace else. Speaking of, remind me to give you my contact for a proper forger. Eventually you'll need new sets of papers; birth certificates, passports, the like." He paused, considering. "Workable? I don't know what you mean, John, you are quite handsome." Sherlock thought that, as loathe as he found it to think about, if he wanted it, John would have no problem finding people to grace his bed, or to become romantically involved with. And he could either glamour the partner in to forgetting about the fangs if it were a casual thing, or he could wait until he was sure the person could accept the secret if it were a romantic sort of thing. Sherlock didn't tell him any of that, though. That was beyond his ability to say aloud without twitching in irritation and jealousy. He had no right to that anymore, but it would still happen.

John felt a warmth in his chest that he pushed down. "You're biased." He responded softly instead. Of course Sherlock was. Nobody would think their mate anything but perfectly attractive. John certainly didn't. In fact, he still thought Sherlock was inhumanly good looking.  John took a few more steps, still wobbling, and when he fell again this time, he was able to land and lean against a wall. He wished it was Sherlock again, but it wasn't. John also wished these thoughts and feelings of how much he wanted Sherlock, of just how badly, would go away. They REALLY weren't helping. Not at all. He closed his eyes tight and righted himself again, before making it to the couch. "Maybe you should introduce me to a few more of...our kind. Ones that don't want to kill me. Though on second thought, this might be good news for Mycroft."

Sherlock sat down lightly on the edge of the couch, still watching John intently. He trusted that if his staring became annoying, he would be told off for it. Until then, he would indulge. They way John stumbled around was oddly endearing. "Certainly not, I am perfectly capable of separating my bias from my statements. I was simply stating a fact." Sherlock crossed his legs at the ankles and then leaned back, stretching his body out. "I can try and introduce you to some. Most don't...ah...I suppose you would call it mainstream? They prefer to be underground. And I've been separate for so long, I'll have to rebuild my trust with them. But I'll get working on it, so that when you leave you won't be completely on your own." Even if he had to suck up to a bunch of low-class, weak, sniveling brats of vampires. Mostly Sherlock had used them for information in cases, but they could be handy for someone like John in finding the places only open to their kind.

John frowned. "I'll take what I can get." He said finally. He didn't mind Sherlock's staring. Ever since he'd known him, he'd been one to stare. It was mostly observation, after all. Even if, right now, it was memorization, and more, for the time when John would no longer be around...It was alright. For John, any connection with anyone would be welcome. He'd even slot himself in with Mycroft if he had to, the man's murder attempt aside. John bit back the thought that he might have been a part of Sherlock's family. "I do appreciate that." He said, finally, and he did. Sherlock was being remarkably helpful.

Sherlock sat for a moment in silence, simply watching. There wasn't much to do at the moment, no cases, no leaving John alone, no holding him or kissing him or indulging in anything else like that. Sherlock's eyes roamed around the room and landed on his violin case. He tilted his head, considering, before standing and lifting it up. He brought it back over to the couched and clicked the locks open. He pulled it out with tender hands and lovingly stroked his fingers over its neck. With a soft smile he began tuning it and rosining his bow, taking his time to do it properly, like it should be done. Soon he had it ready, and he placed it on his shoulder and tilted down his head to rest his chin on the pad. With his back to John he began playing a soft, slow, haunting melody.

John watched him work, watched the slow progression of his movements as he meticulously prepared his instrument. He didn't do that very often. He was very careful with his violin and the bow, but he didn't always do maintenance on them. Often he played his violin without it even being tuned, on the days where he didn't want to play actual music, but simply vent with noise, working out emotion through vibrating strings and resonating sound than in any normal way.  Today he was playing real music. Soft, not depressed, but rather, melancholy. And loving. John had a feeling it wasn't just the craft he was enamored with. John leaned back and watched him, and John appreciated the music with his newly sensitive ears. Sherlock's notes took him in gentle arms in the way Sherlock couldn't, and before long, John had sunk down into the cushions, pillowing his head on his arms and drifting to sleep.

Sherlock turned around once he heard John's breathing deepen and even off in to true sleep. He hadn't faced him before while he was playing because he knew that, while he was composing this song, he wouldn't be able to keep his face blank. Now that John was asleep, Sherlock continued to play, and allowed his face to copy the emotions being coaxed from the strings. They may be separating soon, yes, but Sherlock would not stop loving John any more than John would stop loving him. Sherlock continued the song for several minutes, then allowed it to end on a long, aching note, letting it fade instead of stopping properly. Sherlock licked his lips and sat down on the couch, still watching John with an incredibly open face. Several minutes passed in silence before he brought the bow back up. This time he played something that seemed eerily close to Chopin's Funeral March.


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My heart hurt the entire time we were roleplaying everything in this chapter *sniffles*

Mrs. Hudson wasn't a showoff. She walked up the stairs like a respectable human being instead of popping in through the ether, but she strode like she'd never had a bad hip at all, and gave the illusion of being twice her height. She came in without knocking, and then stepped to Sherlock while he played, rubbing his back right between his shoulder blades with one flat hand, then asked softly, "Are you sure you don't want me to talk with him? We had a good chat while he was in the ether, though I'm not sure he knew it was me. My true form is rather different." She gave Sherlock an almost flirty wink. It really wasn't decent.

Sherlock tensed up a bit at the first touch, causing him to hit one of the notes wrong, but he quickly relaxed enough to finish playing. With a soft sigh he let the instrument drop from his shoulder. He answered Mrs. Hudson without turning to look at her, only continued to watch the sleeping man. "It's no business of mine telling you who you can and cannot speak to, but I don't know what you expect to get out of it. His mind is set. Nothing either of us says will change it." Sherlock stepped away to place the violin back in its proper resting place. The snap of the locks were loud in the quiet flat. "He's set, Mrs. Hudson. He's leaving because of what I did, and nothing we can do can change that." He wished, oh how he did, but he accepted it. Mrs. Hudson was free to try, but he didn't see it working. "Plus, he might just take it as me putting you up to it. As if I would be so pitiful as to ask you to beg for me."

"I'm sure he knows that you can beg for yourself, dear." She said reassuringly. She crouched down in a way no woman her age should be able to do, and began to card a hand through John's hair. He hummed softly and turned his head towards her as her angelic light invaded his slumber. "I'm not sure his mind is completely clear, though. If he manages to survive, many years from now he will have adapted to his nature, and he will know that he would be much better off if he allowed himself to stay under your wing. And that's to say nothing of the emotional side of it." She swallowed, and then turned a serious eye to Sherlock. "If you want him to stay of this world, regardless of whether he leaves you or not, you might want to keep a close eye on him, and give him the push he needs to find his way. He's fragile now and if he's to live, you must keep it in mind."

Sherlock watched and felt a tiny flare of jealousy, or perhaps envy, at how easily she could touch John like that. But he listened to her words, and took them to heart. As old as he was, he knew this kind old lady was much older than he. Wiser, too. She probably would have been even if she were human. "I know. I had planned on it. I wasn't going to let him know, because I doubt he would like me keeping tabs on him, but I wouldn't let him go completely. It's a dangerous world, after all, and very hard to navigate. I will do my best, Mrs. Hudson. If he leaves, he will be just as safe as I can make him. From others and from himself."

Mrs. Hudson shook her head. "You misunderstand me. I mean, while he is still here, you must give him the strong foundation he needs to find his way. Do not be fickle with him because you feel he would not appreciate you getting close. Give him what he _needs_ , whether he wants it from you or not. He deserves to have that, and if he doesn't, he will not be able to handle his new nature." She gave him what was almost a glare. "John Watson is a very precious soul, even if it's obsolete. He will well and truly cease to exist. He will be gone forever. Not just dead. Erased. I will not be able to find his soul in the afterlife, and neither will you, when the time comes. There will be no joining him in death. He may not understand the value of that. You might not understand the value of that. But it's imminently important that if he is valuable to you, you keep him in existence for as long as possible."

Sherlock watched her for a moment, not answering. Eventually he slowly nodded his head. "Alright. Even if he hates me even more for it, I'll teach him everything I can right now, so that he's prepared. I'll explain everything from our culture to dealing with new bondmates, if it will make it better for him in the long run." And he'd hate talking about things like bonds, because it would just make him think of John eventually finding one to replace him, but he'd still do it, because Mrs. Hudson was right. John was a precious soul, and he deserved all the help Sherlock could give him. A thought occurred to him. "You said you were our guardian angel. Will you follow him when he leaves, then? Observe unobtrusively, make sure he is alright?" If she would that would certainly ease Sherlock's mind on the matter.

he paused, and then nodded. "Yes, I will.I plan to keep in real, physical contact with him, in fact. I will keep him as safe as I can manage from outside influences, however I will not interfere if he chooses to take his own life." She knew the natural order of things. She would not stop John. That was not her place. "His best chance at survival centers around you." She did not mention to him that John would not need to know how to deal with new bondmates, as he would never have one. She knew. She could see it wrapped around them, tangling them together like a thick red ribbon. It was tied as thoroughly around John's person as it was to Sherlock's. She hoped that the strength of the bond would bring John close enough to Sherlock to keep him from tearing away.

Sherlock smiled softly at her, in pure gratitude. He had figured she wouldn't stop John from killing himself. That wouldn't be the way her kind worked. They must let the souls live out their lives, of course. Unless they were people like Moriarty, who clearly had gone rogue or possibly insane. "You know I will do everything in my power to keep him alive. Obviously." He made a gesture towards the man, implying his newly changed state. If he was willing to rip the humanity from him and curse him to a life of eternal blood drinking, there was clearly little else Sherlock wouldn't do if it meant keeping this man alive. He'd make it his life mission if he had to. Either way, he wouldn't see John Watson dead with no afterlife promised to him.

John stirred a little, his face contorting slightly uncomfortably. Mrs. Hudson rose to her feet, giving John’s neck a last loving caress, and murmuring to him, "Good luck, dear." She gave Sherlock a matronly look, stern but warm all at the same time, and then she was gone, taking off down the stairs after giving the skull on Sherlock's mantle a longing look. It was only a few minutes after that John opened his eyes. He was experiencing hunger cramps already. It didn't take long, for a newly changed vampire. He pushed himself up, rubbing his eyes. "Guess it's lunchtime." He said, distaste clear on his face.

Sherlock stepped closer and put out a hand, silently offering to help John up since his equilibrium would still be off, and climbing up off a couch was hard even normally when you've just woken up. "Yes." Is all he said, since he'd already apologized several times today. Anyone less moral than John would probably not have such a big issue with this. The people weren't killed for the blood, and he wouldn't be taking it directly and needing to erase memories, but it still bothered John that he would be drinking the life blood of humans. Ridiculous, moral man, Sherlock thought fondly. He was really going to miss him once he leaves. When they'd met at Bart's that day, Sherlock never could have guessed where they would have ended up; Sherlock, completely and utterly in love with him, willing to do anything for him. It was rather remarkable, for he knew he was a selfish man, that he would be so concerned for someone other than himself.

John allowed Sherlock's help with little fanfare, allowed him to steady John as they moved into the kitchen. The hunger pangs were not yet as painful as they were merely distracting. He couldn't get his mind off blood, even to the point that his thoughts lingered on the idea of pretty necks for quite a while before he realized it and quieted himself. Leaning himself against a counter, he waited for Sherlock's instructions. John had never done this before, and even though he was hungry, his fangs weren't out. How exactly did this work?

Sherlock turned away once John as braced against the counter and reached inside for the blood. He hesitated for a moment before snatching out the thermos he'd used earlier and pouring the rest of the bag in to it, from inside where John couldn't see. It's not like sharing germs was that big of an issue by this point. He shut the fridge and then brought the black cup over to John. "I thought if you couldn't see it, it would be easier. I'm not sure how to explain to you how to get your fangs to show- it is like moving a muscle to me, as I've been like this all my life. However, once you start drinking, your body should react normally and then you'll know what it feels like and can attempt to recreate it. That should be the best way to go about this." He held out the cup, eyes intent. This was important. If John couldn't force this down, he would go hungry, would starve to death instead of having to take his own life.

John didn't have high hopes, but he had a great deal of determination. He ran his tongue over his canines as he took the cup, as though willing them to grow. It didn't work. He brought the cup to his nose, and surprisingly, the smell of the blood was fantastic. Having it so close when he was so hungry made his body react, and he felt his fangs retract.  He took a moment to admire them, first with his tongue and then with fingers. This was a whole new part of him. They were quite impressive, and quite sharp. Once he was ready to give the blood a try, he swallowed and raised the little cup. "Cheers." He said, and then quaffed an entire mouthful of it. To say that it was foul was an understatement. He almost spit it back up, reflexively, but he knew that he couldn't. He swallowed the whole huge mouthful, and he felt...Better. Revived. Not full, but slightly more satisfied than before. He set the cup down, thinking that he might throw up if he tried it again. It had smelled so good, so what the hell was going on!? It wasn't moral or emotional revulsion. It was just simple taste. Then it hit John. Newly bonded vampires couldn't stomach blood that wasn't their bondmates. He closed his eyes tight. He'd have to drink from Sherlock if he wanted to survive, because after that first gulp, he knew he couldn't handle any more. But how did he get that past Sherlock. "I, um...I can't do it." He said softly, not looking at Sherlock.

Sherlock watched, quietly entranced, as John explored his new fangs. First and foremost Sherlock was a vampire and as such he preferred his own kinds form, but he'd always considered John the most attractive, regardless of the fact that he was human. But the sight of John with fangs was intensely arousing, caused him to imagine John sinking those fangs in to Sherlock's own neck while he begged for it, and Sherlock had to desperately push down the blush that he could feel warming his cheeks. He hoped it would be gone by the time John looked at him, but thankfully John avoided his eye while he spoke. Fuck. Fuck, what were they going to do now? Sherlock had no way of knowing about the bond connecting on John's end, and so he assumed John couldn't stomach the blood for moral reasons, or because he was just disgusted by the thought. "Fuck," He murmured aloud, because it seemed to be needed. "I could- we could find you a live person, that would probably taste better, and then glamour them, or- or, hell, Molly would probably offer if we promised you wouldn't harm her-" Sherlock cut himself off. John wouldn't want to do that, would he, take from a live person, even with the guarantee that Sherlock would stop him before he harmed anyone?

John winced, and then his wince did a double take. He really, really did NOT want to drink from Molly. In any case, Sherlock was panicking. John was panicking too, but he couldn't manage to grind his teeth together when he had fangs. He took a shaky breath, and shook his head. "I couldn't. They're…They're human, and they're alive. I couldn't."  He didn't like the idea but truth be told...It wasn't a terrible plan. John would do a thing like that only if he absolutely needed to, and was sure he couldn't harm them.

Sherlock bit his lip, considering. He was unsure if his next offer would be accepted, or if it would just disgust John more than the thought of drinking from Molly. But when in doubt, forge ahead. No one could ever accuse Sherlock Holmes of holding back when there were results to be had. Either this would fail or it would succeed, but he would still have more information in the end. "There is...Ah, me." He gestures at himself and then trailed a finger lightly along his neck while he tilted his head to the side. "I am not human, and as I am much older than you, I'm strong enough to just shove you off if you start to take too much. If you can't stomach the bagged stuff, and you do not want to take from a human...Well. There aren't very many options left after that, I am afraid." There. He had thrown out the idea. Sherlock leaned back to wait on John's response.

John was not a good actor. Even so, he did not need to fake his reluctance. He didn't like the idea, because he knew how intense this could get, and he knew that he would probably get excited, and he knew that he did not want to have sex with Sherlock Holmes. Not today. John looked up at Sherlock with cautious eyes, already knowing that he was going to accept, because he had to. It was the only way he could survive. "No sex, afterwards." He said, laying down the law even as he quietly accepted. He took a step forward, trying not to think of how strange it felt to be the predator for once.  His eyes followed the drag of Sherlock's finger, and he shivered. Sherlock looked- and, now that he thought of it, smelled- delectable.

Sherlock quirked up a single eyebrow. The thought had occurred, of course it had, as it always did when in this situation, but he'd cast it aside almost immediately. John could barely stand to be in the same room with him, of course they wouldn't be having sex. No matter how intense this was going to be. "John," He lightly scolded, no real heat in his tone. "I know you consider me a monster, but I am not an animal. I have restraint." Sherlock licked his lips once, then took a deep, fortifying breath. It was a good thing he'd had half of that bag earlier. He'd have to finish it off afterwards. Sherlock tilted his head to the side, baring his throat, and the bond in his head thrummed with pure pleasure at that motion. This was instinctive. This was him pleasing his mate, being useful in the most vital of ways, and it knew that. A thrill of excitement shot up his spine, but he showed no outward signs of it. For the first time he was the prey here, and while it felt vulnerable to so obviously bare his throat like that, it was also strangely arousing. He stomped it all down, though. There wouldn't be any of that on his end, he was damn determined. If he scared John off he might not eat again.

Sherlock's words sent a pang of pain through John. He came to stand close to Sherlock, truly just inches away from him. He could have moaned aloud at how good Sherlock smelled this close up. He was so hungry, and now his mate was offering him his throat. John didn't know why that simple action, the exposure of bare neck, should give him such an intense and specific response, but god, it did. John was quite annoyed to find that he was already half hard. He wanted to just bite Sherlock, to drink him, his fangs actually ached a bit, trying to extend even more, but he couldn't let Sherlock's comment fly like that. When he spoke, it was breathy, and Sherlock could feel the words on his neck. The words weren't sexually charged, weren't angry. They were simple serious, and honest. "You're not a monster. You're just the greatest idiot I've ever met."

Sherlock's body was nearly vibrating with excitement and hastily stomped down arousal, hands clenched tight at his sides. He was expecting this to hurt a bit, as John had never done this before and might not know how to make it pleasurable. Sherlock didn't mind. Or perhaps it would be instinctual, a reaction to John not wanting to hurt anyone, even Sherlock. Either way, pain or pleasure, Sherlock was going to like this, and he'd have to have an iron hold on his will. Otherwise he might wind up trying to shove his tongue down John's throat as soon as this was over, and then he'd probably get punched. Sherlock peered down at him from lowered eyelashes, judging how serious John meant his words. He'd felt the disgust loud and clear before he'd walled off John's emotions, and it was simply a matter of fact that Sherlock had ended his life and turned him in to a creature that couldn't survive without the blood of others. Assuming John thought of him as a monster was just a simple leap of logic. That he didn't...Sherlock smiled at him, the first real, open, soft smile he had achieved so far. "Thank you," He murmured, not even disputing the second part of his statement. Then he took another deep breath, because it really was important that he was steady for this, and said, "Bite me. You need to eat." It came out half command, but also, despite his best efforts, half plea.

John swallowed, and nodded, and he raised his hand to Sherlock's shoulder, running it up to the opposite side of his neck to brace Sherlock, to hold him still. Then he pressed his face into Sherlock's neck, unable to help himself from taking a deep breath. "You smell so good." He said softly, because it was very, very true. John's lips found Sherlock's skin first, even though it was difficult at first to close his lips over his teeth. John didn't have a clue what he was doing, but he knew where the jugular vein was...He gently searched for the blood pounding through it with his tongue.  When he found it, he winced a bit. He really didn't mean this to be as sensual as it was- he was already embarrassingly hard- but he took a page from Sherlock's book and ran his tongue over the spot, making it as wet with healing saliva and he possibly could. He hoped that he was doing this right, but didn't much care if Sherlock had to experience a bit of pain. Not only did John know he could handle it... He knew that Sherlock would be glad to handle it. John sank his fangs in, and then gently pulled them out, and began to suck blood from Sherlock's body. He groaned softly. This tasted like sweet nectar, nothing like the other blood had tasted. His other hand came up to Sherlock's shoulder, this time to steady himself. It was so, so good, and John's body knew just how badly he needed it.

Sherlock bit down hard on his own lip until it turned red, and his clenched hands tightened up even further until he felt a prickle of pain that told him his nails were digging in to the skin there. That was fine, good actually, because he needed something to distract him from this. First the lips, then the licking, and Sherlock tried to subtly shift his hips away from John so that he didn't notice that Sherlock was hard as carbonite, and that was before he'd even been bit. But once John sank his teeth in to Sherlock's neck, he had to force himself not to start panting. It hurt, yes, just a bit, but it was quickly dulled. It wasn't so much pleasure as just...an absence of pain. That wasn't what had Sherlock so aroused, however. His mate was using him for continued survival, as it should be, as he'd wanted it to be ever since he'd found out he was bonded, and the rush it gave him was heady. He couldn't help it when John pulled his fangs out, and a low, rough, broken sounding moan slipped from his lips as his eyes fluttered shut. Oh, gods, why had he offered this? He couldn't handle it, wanting to touch John so desperately but knowing he couldn't, wanting to lean forward and press his lips to John's own bloodied ones, wanted to be able to press his hips forward and shift against John for a bit of friction on his aching erection. But he did none of that. The only thing he did do was lift one arm to place a hand lightly on John's chest, over his heart, not pushing away, simply resting there. He couldn't resist. Sherlock needed to feel John's pulse under his hand, just like John could feel his own under his lips.

John didn't move away from that hand or try to bat it away. In fact, he leaned in to it slightly, still keeping his legs and hips an acceptable space away from Sherlock. He drank and drank the sweet, reviving fluid until he was feeling strong and full, and then, because it was so good and he was a bit mindless now, a little more after that. Finally, when he was done, left panting against Sherlock's neck and trying desperately not to moan himself. Sherlock's noises let John know just how aroused he was, even if he couldn't feel the emotions, and that Sherlock hadn't laid a hand on him- well, figuratively- was a testament to the man's honor. John didn't want to respect that and keep away. He wanted to reward it by pressing up against Sherlock and grinding into him, but he knew that wouldn't be right. Instead he licked over the puncture wound, healing it as fully as he possibly could despite wanting desperately to leave a big red mark there that read: Property of John Hamish Watson. When he was done, he didn't move an inch. He couldn't. He physically couldn't pry himself away from Sherlock. He let his forehead fall to Sherlock's throat. "That was...Um...Good." He said, voice achingly soft and just a little rough.

Sherlock tipped backwards dangerously, swaying on his feet for a moment before the hand on John's chest rose to grasp tightly at his good shoulder. He needed to steady himself. Distracted as he was by the rather intense arousal, he'd let John drink a bit more than he probably should have. Sherlock was light headed, foggy, and everything had taken on a sheen of surrealism. "Mmm," he agreed, the noise rumbling in John's ear. It was good. Much too good. Sherlock was left feeling horrible, intensely aroused and in a desperate need of a wank. He almost felt giddy at the moment, all that blood loss dulling his sharp brain. As such, he didn't even realize what he was doing until he let go of John's shoulder and carded his fingers through the hair at the back of his neck, staring all the while at the different shades that could be distinguished. John had interesting hair. It wasn't that it was pretty, it was just interesting. Not that John wasn't pretty. Or should he say handsome? My, his thought processes weren't going too well at the moment. Sherlock wondered if this was what normal people felt like all the time. If so, he needn't have turned to drugs all those years ago for silence. He could have just drained tons of his blood and then floated around in the ensuing fog.

John closed his eyes as he felt those fingers, so lovely in his hair. "Sherlock..." He said softly, and wished it sounded more like a warning and less like a sigh of happiness. He too felt as though he was going to explode, but he had enough control over himself now that that wasn't going to happen. He took a few long breaths of Sherlock, not disengaging Sherlock's hand from him until he stepped fully away.  He kept one hand on Sherlock's shoulder, because the man seemed like he might fall over at any second. He reached back and grabbed the cup of blood that Sherlock had offered him, and held it gently to Sherlock's lips. He didn't know what he was supposed to say after this, but he knew...This wasn't good. That he could only drink from Sherlock. How long would this last? Sherlock seemed to be over it, but John had died…He didn't want to stay here longer than he had to.

Sherlock stepped away from John, despite wanting to hold him close and bury his head in John's hair. They were too close, and he needed to back away, right now, because his will was breaking. At least he could recognize the danger. He took the cup from John, lifted it up to his lips and took it like a beer, tipping his head straight back and chugging until the entire thing was gone. The good thing was that the loss of that much blood had made it impossible to sustain his erection, so at least he didn't need to worry about that. It didn't go to work immediately, but it did clear up his head enough for him to think properly, and for him to realize that this was bad. John couldn't live off of just eating from Sherlock. One of them was going to be constantly weak. Sherlock would have to call Molly and up his usual amount of blood for the month. Of course, this wouldn't last long. Soon John would leave and he could go back to normal. A pang of loneliness echoed around in his chest. He didn't want to be alone. He didn't want to go back to how he'd been before he met John. Sherlock sighed and sat the now empty thermos on the counter. "Well." He said, for lack of anything better to say.

Now John knew exactly how long it would last- Until he could stomach the taste of blood other than Sherlock's. How long would that be? A few days? A week? A month? Forever? All he knew was that he could not do this for too long. The sexual frustration alone was nearly enough to kill him. He wanted Sherlock so much, but he knew that it was such a bad idea. He couldn't handle that forever, he'd go mad. He cleared his throat. Now he felt expectant. Everything was the way it should have been. "Um...If you're feeling alright...My headache is gone. Do you have anything to teach me?"

Sherlock motioned towards the living room. "Shall we relocate, first? I'd like to sit down, if you don't mind." The blood was doing its job but he was still a bit woozy. John had taken rather a lot of blood. He stepped out without waiting for John. John was getting better at walking alone, and now he'd like to see if he could make it without Sherlock hovering behind him. Once seated on the couch he pulled his legs up until his knees were bent up in front of him. "What would you like to learn?" He asked from this spot. "I will try and answer any questions you have as best as I am able. I can teach you to use a glamour. It's not as complicated as it might seem. I..." This hurt. He didn't want to say it. But Mrs. Hudson was right, and Sherlock needed to give John a strong foundation for when he left. He'd need to know everything. "I can tell you what needs to be done when you find a mate, what you must do for the bond to be...ah. Solidified, I suppose. For it to lock around you properly." Sherlock didn't look up while he spoke. He stared straight ahead, eyes locked on their wallpaper as if it held the secrets to the universe. He was very proud his voice was regulated and rock steady.

John found his way back in and onto the comfortable easy chair in the livingroom, pulling the union jack throw pillow out from under him and letting it rest on his lap instead. He watched Sherlock as the man talked. He seemed so uncomfortable, and John could understand why. Just the idea of Sherlock making a mating bond with anyone else was enough to tear his chest open with raw emotion. He wanted to know, because he wanted to know everything, and he wanted to know because he wanted to better understand his new, and unfortunately, obsolete bond with Sherlock. "I'll need to know how to glamour. And…Yes, I'd like to know that, too."

Sherlock hid a sigh as clearing his throat while he brought his hands up to his chin, letting his thumbs rest there and the others extending upwards to form a line over his lips. He took a moment of silence to think about what he'd say, and to actually prepare himself to say it. "I'll start with the bond. For it to be fully reciprocated and acknowledged, the two need to first share blood, and then engage in sexual activity. It's a bit like a marriage, you know, where you consummate it." He was determined to speak of this in the abstract, because if he thought of John doing this with anyone else he would simply snap. Already he had to fight off the urge to twitch and snarl. "It's quite simple, as the bond almost has a mind of its own. It will examine both persons, make sure that it is wanted on both sides, and then it will pull tight and link the two.  But the blood sharing and sex must happen first. Usually the pairs will cut their chests or arms, places not near a major vein. The point isn't to swap blood or anything, just to intake a bit of it. To become one with your partner. To cease to be a single entity, if only for that moment. It's a very _intense_ moment. It'll fade afterwards, but for that one time, there is no “I”. No “you”. Only “us”." Sherlock's chest ached from the force of his want at the moment.

Even though Sherlock's face and voice stayed perfectly level, John could practically taste his desperate desire to confirm his bond with John. Or maybe those were John's feelings, since he still couldn't feel Sherlock. He knew they were still bonded, they had to be, but he still didn't have a clue what Sherlock was thinking. John nodded, slowly. Oh, he would love to do that, to share blood that way, not for food, but so that they could become one. And so they could then have a sexual encounter. They still hadn't fucked yet. He shivered, visibly, and knew that Sherlock could see it. "What's the difference between a bond before it's... solidified, and after?"

Sherlock noted the shiver, and he tried his best not to think about. But he did, and he ended up imagining himself hovering over John, making him shiver like that, making him call out Sherlock's name, begging him. He desperately hoped the flush he was feeling didn't show on his cheeks. He coughed lightly and pushed on. "There isn't such a large difference. It's much harder to break, and the range is extended. If one concentrates hard enough, you can even speak to each other through it. Before, if a mate was in danger, the other would be able to tell from their emotions. Once the bond has been properly locked in, however, it will let you know when that is the case. It will warn you that the other is in trouble, and you won't just have to trust that you'll notice their alarmed emotions. Perhaps the other is frightened but not in real danger. It would know that. It would be able to tell the difference, because it's linked in to your mates thoughts properly. The bond afterwards would know the difference. There are no more barriers." That would certainly be handy during cases when they were split up- But, no, John wouldn't be going on cases with Sherlock anymore. Sherlock sighed. "Most importantly, though, is that once it's been solidified, it's much easier for others to sense it. It signals in an unmistakable way that the two belong to each other. It's like a giant, unseen signal that screams “Mine”. Our kind rather like that." They like that a lot. Sherlock had been wanting to scream that from the rooftops ever since he'd felt the bond, that first night.

John winced slightly. All of that sounded so good, so right, and most of all, so _useful_. As for wanting everyone to know that Sherlock was his, and his alone...John wanted that quite a bit. He chewed on his lower lip trying to get the jealous streak to subside. “This may be a dumb question, but...Do you think you will ever form another bond again?" It managed to sound curious and nothing more. Not nervous or jealous or hurting, which were all the things that John was right then. Sherlock would be better off if he did, but John had a feeling he already knew the answer.

Sherlock answered immediately, almost before John had finished asking. He didn't have to think about it. "No. I won't." The thought of taking another mate, one that wasn't John, absolutely revolted him. He'd never wanted one in the first place, had never wanted the burden of another person on his consciousness, but this was different. For however long he'd live, he'd only want John. He wouldn't take another after this, because for Sherlock, John would be his mate until he died. Even if they weren't bonded. "No," He repeated again, not so quick this time. "I don't imagine I will." Sherlock looked away from the wall, for the first time looking John in the eye since they began this conversation. Sherlock may have inadvertently blocked his emotions off from John, but his love and guilt were still visible in his eyes.

It was John this time that couldn't hold Sherlock's gaze. His eyes fell with his own guilt, even though this whole thing was Sherlock's fault. John didn't like that he was depriving his mate of love, of any kind, even though it felt good to know that he wouldn't ever have to share him with anyone. "That's what I thought you'd say." He couldn't say he hoped Sherlock was wrong anymore. He didn't want Sherlock to be lonely or alone, but he certainly didn't want anyone else to have him. "For what it's worth...I am sorry this had to happen this way."

Sherlock could perfectly understand John's contradictory emotions, because he was experiencing them himself right now. He wanted John to have happiness, but at the same time he didn't want it to be caused by anyone but himself. He'd already wasted his chance, however, and he really needed to resign himself to that fact. He was still having trouble accepting it. "No reason for you to say sorry, John. This was my fault, and I suppose I deserve it." He once again looked away, even though John hadn't been looking at him anyway. After a moment he spoke again. "Would you like me to show you how to glamour someone? It's very simple, mostly instinct." He needed to change the subject. The previous one was much too emotionally weighted for him, and it would be best to simply stop.

John swallowed, and into the silence he said, "It hurts you. It doesn't have to be my fault for me to be sorry that you got hurt. I'm not leaving out of revenge." John didn't need to take revenge, not on Sherlock. Moriarty, maybe, but never Sherlock. He waited for Sherlock to offer something new to teach, and he was rewarded. "Yes, I think that would be for the best. I'm going to need to be good at it to make my way in the world, it seems." He said, trying to make light of this whole terrible situation. "Maybe I can glamour the ticket man at the movie theatre to let me in for free."

Sherlock's lips ticked up in half a smile, but it didn't reach his eyes. "I've used it for that before, actually. I spent some time on the streets with no money, and I would glamour my way in to certain places. Not a terribly dignified way to live, but it got the job done." Sherlock shifted and shuffled forward until he was just about to invade John's personal space. "Now, I'm not going to glamour you, but I need you to look me in the eyes. Once you do that, you're going to focus intently on something you want me to do, or to say. I am trusting you with this." And for his kind, this was a bit of a big deal. Vampires could not glamour other vampires without consent. Sherlock was giving his. "You should feel a slight humming, in the front of your head. It will not be unpleasant, just...odd. Focus on that while thinking of my task. If you maintain eye contact, it should work. It is almost as if you are forming a mental link through sight, and then transferring your will to the other person." Sherlock leaned forward, now most definitely past the socially acceptable space limit.

John could feel the magnitude of Sherlock’s trust in these matters. He'd only ever let another vampire glamour him once before, hadn't he, and that had been Mycroft.  John's first instinct was to glamour Sherlock to kiss him, because Jesus, that had been so sweet, so wonderful, and he wanted another desperately and it wasn't as though Sherlock would be mad, surely he must want to kiss John too so there'd be no harm in it! Except there really would be. John swallowed, and leaned forward, and caught Sherlock's gorgeous lithium gaze. It took him a long moment, but he found what Sherlock was talking about, and with his intent, he concentrated. Sherlock then got up, strode into the kitchen, and returned a moment later with John's teacup. John had another sip because it was warm. "That wasn't so hard." He said with a little smile, once Sherlock had resumed his seat. "S’pose I should enjoy this- The first and only time you're the one fetching be tea."

Sherlock blinked as his eyes lost their glazed, faraway look. That had been extremely disconcerting, being inside his body and feeling it move without any say so from him. He blinked once more before focusing back on John, raising an eyebrow as he did. "Really, John? You could have made me do anything you'd like, and you send me to fetch your tea?" His voice was amused, though, and his lips formed a sort of lopsided half smile, and he certainly didn't mind. That loss of control could be frightening for some, and the fact that all John made him do was grab his tea was appreciated. Of course, Sherlock most likely would not have been frightened of anything John would have had him do. Sherlock trusted John, implicitly.  He had known when he'd offered this that John wouldn't force him in to anything embarrassing or potentially dangerous. John just simply wasn't that kind of man. It was rather ridiculously endearing.

John purposefully did not mention that it wasn't his first idea. Sherlock knew John well enough to know that he wouldn't consider something so terribly mundane first. Sherlock would have to assume that whatever John had thought of first had been deemed too much, and that John had then reconsidered, because not only did he care about and respect Sherlock, but he was simply a trustworthy man. "I decided on something you'd never do in a million years, isn't that enough?" He asked with an almost grim humor. "Anyway, you were right, that wasn't nearly as difficult as I thought it would be. The only trick is getting people to stare into your eyes for that long."

Sherlock nodded in agreement. "Yes. But that's really not that hard. People don't know that looking in to the eyes of another person might be dangerous. Besides, if you are alluring enough, most people will stare and stare." He did not say that he had used his own good looks to convince people to stare in to his eyes, because by the tone of his voice and the tilt of his head, almost as if he were posing in the light, it was already apparent. And he had. Sherlock was perfectly aware of his own looks and of the interesting shade of his eyes, and he'd used that many a time to tempt people in to meeting his gaze. John should similarly have no trouble with it - not because of his appearance so much as the fact that he just looked like the kind of man you should maintain eye contact with. Sherlock finally leaned back and away from John's personal space. "Yes, most of the things that I did that had seemed odd or hard to you as a human will be simple for you now. It's all about the instinct." He decided to simply not acknowledge the large part of himself that was whining about pulling away from the other man.

“Hah.” The laugh was short and humorless, but there was a quirk to John's lips and a softening in his eyes, a smile that was real, and self-deprecating. “I'm starting to see that quite clearly.” He said. He felt urges he'd never felt before, directing him in the way he should act, and affecting his body and his feelings. His normal human instincts didn't hold a candle to these. In some ways, it made it easier, since things like drinking and obviously, glamouring, were easy, were almost second nature already. Then again, they made him want Sherlock so intensely, in new and strange ways, as well as old ways. It was very, very difficult to ignore, and it was driving him mad. Was Sherlock feeling the same way?

Sherlock was indeed feeling the same way, but he had been feeling it for much longer. The aching longing, the pure need, the protectiveness and the possessiveness. Everything combined to leave him with an intense urge to crawl in to John's lap and beg forgiveness, beg to be held, beg to be allowed to take John as his own again. But he fought against it, constantly, because it wasn't what John wanted, and Sherlock wouldn't do anything John didn't want - not this time. He'd already turned him. But the urges didn't go away, and if he let his self-control slip for a moment, well...Things like that kiss earlier would repeat themselves. John probably really would punch him in the nose if he dropped to the ground from his seat, crawled over on his hands and knees, and then planted himself in his lap.

If Sherlock did any of those things, John would, in all likelihood, buckle and agree. He'd take Sherlock in his arms and reassure him that they'd manage this new terrible life together. He'd tell Sherlock that he belonged to Sherlock, and vice versa, and then he'd ask where Sherlock kept his knife so they could confirm their bond. Having Sherlock in his lap would be like a sweet homecoming. Of course, these feelings, these instinctual urges, were part of the problem. They were one of many reasons why John couldn't stay with Sherlock, couldn't forgive him, couldn't stay. Sherlock had condemned him to this, and John couldn't get over that. But instead, as none of that happened, John just smiled slightly and stood with a little wobble. “If that’s all for now, I’m going to wander around the house. It’s not comfortable, knowing you can’t really move your body properly.” He left Sherlock there in the living room after receiving a nod of approval, and spent the next while walking all throughout the flat, trying as hard as possible to stop thinking, if only for a little while. 


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's a bit of a doozy, ladies and gents. Trigger warning for attempted suicide.

Sherlock yawned from where he was resting on the couch, long legs stretched out and dangling over the arm of it, staring up blankly at the ceiling as he waited for John to shuffle in for breakfast. Today should be another feeding day, and as such Sherlock had been steadily drinking from a bag of blood all night, sipping from the thermos whenever he remembered to. A week later and John would still be drinking from him instead of the donor blood. Not that Sherlock minded, of course not, but if this continued for long Sherlock would be left in a constant state of weakness. Sherlock absently trailed a finger along his throat, pausing at the spot John had bitten last time, lost in thought and oblivious to the world for the moment.

John did, eventually, walk in, in a set of pajamas. He had gotten used to walking, and hadn't tripped. Light still gave him a headache if it was too bright, but he could manage to walk outside in the daytime, provided it was cloudy. He'd begun to understand Sherlock and his greatcoat and gloves, though, and he thought that he might want to grow his hair out a bit longer. He could put it back for home and in polite company, but he really needed something to protect his neck and ears from the sun. He was already sick of the smelly, sticky, itchy routine of putting on sunblock every day. All in all, John was still perfectly miserable with his new nature. He hated hearing more than he should, he hated squinting in the light. He hated the predatory and mating urges he felt all the time. He hated ignoring his bond with Sherlock. But more than anything, he hated the blood. The idea still made him sick to his stomach to think about, and the hunger pains hurt like hell. He couldn't stomach donor blood still, because of the bond, and three times now he had fed from Sherlock. How good it felt and how much he needed it- not just the blood, but Sherlock too- was enough to drive him absolutely crazy. It wasn't just nagging unhappiness, either. It was near constant frustration, and he wasn't even truly on his own yet. More and more he was thinking he couldn't handle being on his own, both in providing for himself, and just managing, emotionally. He stepped in. "Morning." He said flatly, looking as bad as he felt.

Sherlock tipped his head to the side, watching John in silence for a long moment. It hurt him to see John looking like he did. The only way to describe him was...Broken. In turn it broke Sherlock, to see him and know that this was Sherlock's fault, that he was the reason John looked so miserable. Sherlock swung his legs over to the side and sat up, straightening his dress shirt. "Good morning," He finally responded in a quiet voice. He drained the last of the blood from his cup before standing, taking a single step towards John. He'd been hoping that, over the next few days, John would have taken to his new nature and not be so run down. Instead he just seemed to be sinking deeper and deeper in to depression and aggravation and, Sherlock thought, loneliness. And there was nothing he could think of to help him. It was slowly killing him inside, seeing his mate this listless. "Hungry?" He asked, tilting his head to the side slightly to show off the smooth, white skin of his neck.

John nodded.  It was definitely time for him to feed. He'd been feeling the beginning of the hunger aches last night, but had decided to save it for morning. Now he was absolutely famished. "I'm going to try the donor blood again." He said. No one could say John was giving up, or not doing his best or anything like that. John was trying desperately to hold on. He'd already left his job at the A&E. He waited for Sherlock to get up and follow him. He didn't want to have to tell Sherlock when he inevitably failed again. He just wanted Sherlock to tip his head back, in that gorgeous way he was doing right now, and let John sink his teeth deep into him.

Sherlock followed slowly, feeling as if he were constantly stepping on cracks around John lately. He was never much one for consideration of others, but every moment he was afraid he would do something to anger John or cause him to hate Sherlock further. He was impressed, though, that John was still trying, still attempting to force down the donor blood. Sherlock hadn't asked why he couldn't do it - there could be any number of reasons, and it could be a private thing. Sherlock believed he'd lost all right to invade John's privacy, and while he normally didn't give a damn about anyone's privacy, John was different. "Any better?" He asked, basically meaning everything over-all, but leaving it open ended enough to allow John to pretend he'd meant something specific if he didn't want to get in to it. Being so considerate was an odd experience for Sherlock. He wasn't sure if he liked it.

John sighed softly and shook his head as he punctured his own bad and let it fill a second thermos. He wasn't squeamish about blood until it got into his mouth, but by the time it did, he was already drinking like a man dying of thirst.  The wonderful smell of the blood made his stomach flipflop, and he crushed down hope so he wouldn't be disappointed. "Worse." John said, as though he was speaking about anything mundane, and not the very nature of his existence. "Worse than I ever was as a human." He said, and that meant something. When John had met Sherlock, He might have only been a matter of months away from eating his own bullet.

Sherlock's mask of blankness that he had been maintaining for the better part of the week broke for a moment at John's words, his face crumpling in self-loathing and guilt and helplessness- but it was back in place in only a moment, because his feelings would help no one here. John didn't need to see what this was doing to him. It wasn't important. What was important was making things better. Sherlock didn't know how to do that, though, and it was driving him absolutely mad. Sherlock clasped his hand on John's shoulder, just for a moment, just long enough for his own warmth to seep in to John, and then he backed off to stand waiting while John tried to drink from the thermos again. Sherlock didn't have any high hopes, since if John couldn't do it before he didn't expect him to suddenly be able to now, but it was always worth a try.

John relaxed as he felt Sherlock's hand on his shoulder. Everything in his was screaming at him to whip around and kiss him, to beg him to forget all of this ever happened and forgive John's weakness and forgive that John's pain hurt Sherlock so much- Because John knew it was there, there was no use hiding it, he knew Sherlock this well, at least. He couldn't though. He knew he couldn't, because Sherlock was the reason he was like this. John took a deep breath, and lifted the thing to his mouth. He took a tiny, revolting, stomach turning sip, and then set it back down. How disgusting. It was obvious on his face, so he didn't bother commenting. "Thank you for doing this for me." He said softly as he took his step closer. He never met Sherlock's eyes anymore.

Sherlock had noticed that John would not meet his gaze, and that hurt almost as much as watching him shuffle around in misery day in and day out. He kept trying to catch his eye, but John would just keep looking away. Sherlock clenched his jaw and stood still, letting John be the one to move. "Of course." He tipped his head to the side in the typical manner, drawing in quiet, even breaths. Would it be inappropriate to say 'it's my pleasure'? Most likely. Sherlock kept his mouth shut. When in doubt, say nothing, his mother had taught him. He didn’t often exercise that lesson, but still.

John knew that just like the last three times, that the way his entire body warmed and ached when he saw Sherlock's pale neck offered to him was just a forewarning to how it was going to feel to drink from him. They'd end up inevitably tangled together, and it would take them long minutes to step back out of each other’s personal space. Sherlock would be drained, and John would be painfully aroused, and neither of them would feel like they truly benefitted, despite the sustenance and how good it felt. The whole thing was nearly unbearable, and it made John sick. He'd actually been ill after the last time. He'd thrown up the sandwich he'd eaten two days previously, but not any blood. That was vampire physiology for you. John hoped that this time wouldn't be as bad, but he didn't have high hopes. He stepped forward, up into Sherlock's physical space, and he did as he always did, bracing himself on Sherlock's neck and shoulders. He leaned forward, lightly kissed the spot as he always did, then laved his tongue over it a few times, bit down, and drank.

Sherlock made a soft little groaning sound at first, and then fell completely silent. With each time past he managed to make less and less noise, and this time that initial groan was the only thing he allowed himself. Otherwise he stood in silence, one hand fisted at his side and the other resting lightly on John's chest, just as the first time. He panted quietly in John's ear, but he didn't think that counted. Sherlock was trying to make this as easy for John as he could, and the noises Sherlock had made in the beginning probably hadn't helped much. Sherlock's eyelids slid shut and he licked his lips while John drank. He would gladly trade his blood for this, each and every time. It wasn't so much the pleasure of it, but the closeness. When John fed was the only time he got to be this close to John, got to feel him pressed against him. It made something in his chest ache, half in pain and half in joy. When John got close to the limit of what Sherlock could give without getting woozy, he gently used the hand on John's chest to push, a silent signal to stop.

And unlike the first time, John stopped, just as he was meant to. He licked his lips and tried to refrain (semi-successfully) from making his own breathy sounds. He licked the spot closed, and then, as every time, he laid his warm forehead on Sherlock's cool skin. He was so hard. Sherlock was so warm and welcoming in front of him.  He couldn't touch him any more than he already was. He couldn't kiss him, couldn't hold him closer, couldn't curl up into a ball and cry and plead for Sherlock to take care of him, the way that his helpless inner self was screaming for louder and louder every moment for the past week. John knew with a turn in his stomach that he couldn't do this again. He couldn't. And he wouldn't starve to death, either. He wanted to tell Sherlock something, give Sherlock some last words, but he couldn't. Not only did he not want Sherlock to suspect anything, but he didn't know what words he would even use. Instead, his hands on Sherlock's shoulders tightened a fraction, a slight, needy movement.

Sherlock, oblivious to John's inner thoughts and emotions, simple stood there trying to get his breathing under control, and trying to will away his own erection. He had wanked more times than he could count in the past week, every single time John fed from him, and then several other times from sheer sexual frustration at having his mate close but not close enough. Sherlock noticed the tightening of John's hands, but he didn't take it to mean anything. Instead he just pressed his own hand closer, the one hovering over John's heart. He didn't say anything for a long while, just basking in the warmth of having John near him like this. Finally, though, he cleared his throat and said in a voice that was only slightly hoarse, "That was…ah…good. Better than last time. I mean, you stopped much easier, yes? You are gaining control." He was trying to be encouraging, trying to show that things were getting better.

John had stayed there, close to Sherlock, for whole minutes longer than he normally did. This was the last time he would touch him, after all. Sherlock. I love you so fucking much, and I'm so fucking sorry. I just can't do this anymore. I hope you understand. John took a deep breath when Sherlock spoke,

and pushed himself away. Better. More control. As though there would be a next time. John knew there wouldn't be. He had to get away before Sherlock could plant more little ideas like that in his mind, make him doubt himself. "Yeah." John said softly, then, “I'm, um...Going back to my room." It was the first time John had gone to be alone after he fed, not counting the puking.

Sherlock blinked down at him, coming out of his stupor of blood loss and happiness at John's closeness. "Alright," he replied, not suspicious but wondering why John was leaving so suddenly. Perhaps he was sick again? Perhaps he just wanted to be alone, he scolded himself. It was none of his business. But something inside him made Sherlock raise a hand to touch John's cheek softly, lovingly, before he turned away and stalked back in to the living room. Surely John could forgive him that little lapse of control. Surely. If not, well. No real harm done, right? Sherlock had already royally screwed this up, nothing could make it worse.

John sighed softly and actually closed his eyes, leaning into the soft touch. He could forgive Sherlock for it, but he could not forgive himself for still loving the touch of the man who had made him this way. He couldn't forgive Sherlock for what he'd done, because that was the whole reason John was sick and tired and upset all the time, the reason why John's body felt so strange, the reason why he had to practically cannibalize, the reason why he literally couldn't get Sherlock out of his head for even a moment. He couldn't forgive Sherlock for all that. But he could forgive Sherlock for the soft, loving touch. After that, John retired to his room. He sat on his bed, and pulled his gun out of the bedside drawer. Not the one he'd smuggled. The one Sherlock had given him. Shiny and black, and loaded with silver bullets. "God, but you're a beauty." He murmured softly to the gun, as if it were his last companion.

Sherlock collapsed back down to the sofa, pressing the heels of his palms in to his eyes. Fuck, but he was sick of all of this. Sick of the self-hate and the bitterness and the never ending longing. He had no right to complain, this was his fault, but he still hated what was happening. Every day seemed to break John down a little bit more, and with it, Sherlock. He hadn't really left the flat in days, deciding to stay with John, and he hadn't accepted any of the cases Lestrade sent his way that would have required him to leave. He'd solved two via email and phone, but that was it. Otherwise he sat in the house, as if it were penance for the wrong he had committed to John's person. And once John left, it would be like purgatory. Sherlock sighed and took up staring at the ceiling again, simply for lack of anything else to do. Nothing stimulated his mind at the moment. No cases, no experiments, nothing.

John stared at the gun for long minutes, and then laid it down on the bedspread. If he was going to do this, he was going to do it right. It wasn't stalling. It was ceremonialism. He took out his gun care kit, then he took apart the gun, bullets and all, cleaned and maintenanced, and then loaded it back up again. He put his kit away, and then licked his lips, wondering if the barrel would taste any better than thermos blood. He picked the gun back up and cocked it. He should probably say a few words. His mind raced and with it his heart, and every emotion he had switching into overdrive. He was afraid. He didn't want to die, but not dealing with this pain, being a part of nothingness, that would be better than keeping on or trying to build himself back up. It would be better than living with Sherlock but being unable to leave him. He had to, but he was still afraid. No afterlife. Just nothingness. He was also relieved. This was all almost over! He was almost free, even if free was gone. And then, sorrow, and the constant love of the bond. Sherlock. He could go on forever about Sherlock. He decided this was worth speaking to the gun again. "I meant it, you know, what I said the last time. I did love him, and this whole thing is not his fault, not really. And I do love him. I couldn't tell him now, because it would just hurt him, but I really do." He bit his lip, and then gave himself a little nod and cocked the gun. He took another deep, fortifying breath, and lifted his head to the ceiling. "Goodbye, Sherlock." He said, and leveled the barrel of the gun in his mouth, aimed up. It tasted almost sweet.

Sherlock blinked in confusion. Something was wrong, something wasn't right, but he couldn't place- and then he could, because the wall he had spent time building up and fortifying broke, and he could suddenly feel everything John was feeling, all the pain and fear and every last little thing. Sherlock gasped, lurching up from the couch and nearly falling flat on his face. No. No, no, no, he couldn't be- Sherlock tore out of the living room, bounded to John's room, and slammed his shoulder in to the door with enough force to splinter the wood. He took in the scene at a glance, his blood running cold at the sight of his old gun in John's mouth. He took it all in and shouted, the only thing he could think that would reach John, to the soldier within. With his most commanding tone Sherlock shouted, "Halt!" and he hoped to god John didn't pull the trigger in front of him. He wouldn't be able to handle living with himself if he actually watched John kill himself over something that was his fault.

John didn't have to obey the order, the soldier in him didn't matter one bit. He didn't have a chance to think about Sherlock at all, because suddenly his whole body was spasming, aching with pain so shriekingly terrible it felt like all of John's body was being whacked by a hammer in every direction. He dropped the gun, and it went off, putting a bullet in the plaster of the ceiling, but John couldn't even hear the deafening noise of it above the sound of his own screams. Every bit of him was on fire, and he just wanted to die because that was the point, that would be so much better than this-please- please kill me- But then the white noise of the agony became too loud for even those words. The entire scene was unmistakable. John's reaction was exactly what Sherlock's had been. It was obvious what had just happened. John was left panting and whimpering softly as his whole body shook with tension and pain, weak as a kitten. He was still alive. He was still fucking alive.

Sherlock stared down at John with wide eyes, his mouth hanging open slightly. What had just happened- but, no, he knew what had happened. It was unmistakable. Sherlock would recognize that reaction anywhere. "Oh, gods," he whispered. But that meant- John was- Sherlock's brain promptly shut down, unable to handle this on top of stopping John's suicide attempt. He collapsed to his knees by John's side and he gently pressed the hair of out John's face. "Oh, John, why," He murmured, unsure if John could even hear him or not. He remembered that pain, would probably remember it forever, and he knew that it might hurt too much at the moment for John to even be conscious of what was going on right now. Sherlock wasn't even sure what he was asking about. Why did you do it? Why did you hide this from me? Why didn't he notice? Why, why, why. "Are you alright?" Sherlock asked with a shaking voice. The only point of contact he made was his hand on the side of John's face. He kept his body as far from John's own as was possible.

Just so. John couldn't possibly understand what Sherlock was saying. He could hardly hear him. It was a valiant effort that he managed not to pass out. He did know, acutely, that Sherlock was touching him, and that was wonderful. His head turned and pushed hand against Sherlock's hand, and he gave a tiny moan as his neck protested. That had been like being shot. Only with a machine gun. And he didn't die. Oh, but he wanted more of Sherlock's hands on him, though. That was the only thing that could ease the post-seizing ache that was driving him insane.

Sherlock cupped John's face in both hands, holding it there as he pressed a trembling kiss to his forehead, unable to resist. "Gods, John, why? Why did you hide this?" He'd ask about the attempted suicide later, but at the moment John wasn't dead and he could feel the bond humming happily in his head, now that he wasn't blocking it and trying to forget all about it. Sherlock swallowed and the noise was loud in the quiet after the roar of the gun. He absently wondered if Mrs. Hudson would be up later to see about it, or if she'd just know what had gone on. That wasn't important at the moment, though. Sherlock's eyes rove over John's body, watching as it trembled in pain. He wondered if John would let him repay that favor of the bath and massage, but he doubted it.

Slowly, John came back to a level of awareness high enough to understand what Sherlock was saying. He coughed, groaned again, and then everything crashed down on him. Sherlock's questions didn't matter in the slightest now. Sherlock had stopped him. God, he had been about to do it, but Sherlock had stopped him. He was alive, so alive that he was in terrible pain. Sherlock had seen. Sherlock knew. And he knew about the bond. John's next breath was a hiccup, and then, he was crying. It wasn't over, and that was overwhelming. "Sherlock, why couldn't you have waited just thirty seconds?" He asked softly. "This would be so much easier."

Sherlock shifted until he was wrapping his arms John's body, with John's head in his lap, Sherlock leaning over him, rocking slightly while John cried. "Because, you bloody idiot, if I'd waited you'd be dead, and then I would have wanted to follow you, but I couldn't even do that because there'll be no afterlife for you." Sherlock whispered in his ear, making sure his voice wasn't loud. John would be in so much pain for the next while, Sherlock didn't want to hurt his ears any more. They were probably ringing right now anyway. While he spoke he lightly examined the bond, testing the strength of it out and the way it actually connected to John and linked back to himself. Before, he had not probed at it, because he had not expected it to be connected. Now that he was actually paying attention and examining it, he wasn’t sure how he’d missed it. It was so vibrant and warm.

John winced. He didn't like the idea of his mate dying. Sherlock could feel that whole thought process in his head, and John could feel Sherlock now too, and it was a relief but also really not helpful. He hurt so much, everywhere. And Sherlock was here now, and John wanted to take all Sherlock had to offer. His arms around him were so good, and John imagined how good it would feel to be able to lean into Sherlock, pressing his wet face to Sherlock's dry one. Instead, he turned his head and pressed it into Sherlock's trouser leg. He really shouldn't, though. Couldn't, even. Still all of this was because of Sherlock. He couldn't stay here, not anymore. He had to go. But right now he couldn't even move. "You shouldn't have seen that, Sherlock."

Sherlock swallowed, feeling John's emotions. He didn't want this. He knew what this meant, and he did. Not. Want it. "No," He agreed, "I shouldn't. And you shouldn't have been forced to it. But gods, please, John, you can't kill yourself. Please." He stroked the back of his head and made soft little choked noises at the thought of his mate dying. Sherlock was aware, now, that John could in turn feel his emotions, and he let him. He let John feel how agonizing that was, to know that he was a poor enough mate that his partner should want to kill himself, to walk in and see it. Sherlock curled forward a bit more so that he was as close to John as possible. Best to soak it up while he had him here. It wouldn't last long.

John would have liked to be in full contact with Sherlock, body wrapped in warm, wonderful, life affirming in so many ways body. He wanted it so Sherlock could feel it. For right now, at the very least, he wasn't going anywhere. If Sherlock truly wanted to take advantage and soak it up he should. John felt it in himself, that want to be closer, to need his mate's comfort. He put one hand on the ground and tried to push himself up. He didn't recover from this as well as Sherlock did, and he let out a tiny noise of pain before giving up. Instead he explained. "I can't drink from you again. Being so close to you and drinking you inside me when I can't stay is torture. I won't do it again. I can't. And I won't starve. So I wanted to go." He shook his head. "It would have been so _easy_ , Sherlock, and you've gone and mussed it up."

Sherlock shifted them again until he was carefully moving John, until he had him all but leaning against his chest in Sherlock's lap. He buried his nose in the side of John's neck, inhaling slowly. "And since when has John Watson ever gone the easy route?" He asked in a hollow voice. This was it, then. As soon as he was better, John would be leaving. He could sense that from him. And in turn John could sense his complete and utter despair at the idea. "I know. That seems to be what I do best, doesn't it?" Could he be blamed for that, though? Who would stand idly by while their mate shot themself? No one. "I love you," He said, because that was why he had done these things in the first place, why he'd turned him, why he'd stopped him. "I love you so very much, John Watson, and I am so, so sorry." It felt like goodbye.

John couldn't fault Sherlock for saving him this time. "I'm not entitled to something easy for once?" He asked softly. "First the chip and pin and now this." He buried his face in Sherlock's neck, and now he could feel the significance of that as clearly as Sherlock could. It was warm. It was home. But he had to leave. "I love you too, Sherlock, even if you don't want to hear me say it. That's the problem. I love you but I can't stay here. This life hurts too much and you're the one who caused it and I can't stand that, so I'm going. I'll go crazy if I stay here with you. But every day, every time I drink, I'm so close to you and we could have so much more, we could be together, it could be wonderful. I just can't bear being jerked around like that. I'd rather be dead than teased." He swallowed. "I might die if I leave you anyway."

Sherlock closed his eyes and tightened his grip. "That's why you couldn't drink the donor blood. Because the bond is new for you. Gods, but I am an idiot. And you won't be able to drink when you leave- John, what are you going to do? You'll starve. I can't-" The image of John, out there on the street somewhere, stumbling around in a starved state, he couldn't even think about it. Strong, capable John, brought down by hunger. It wasn't right. Just as watching him put a gun in to his mouth hadn't been right. "You'll starve," He repeated in a whisper against John's skin. Sherlock's right hand rose to card through the hair at the back of John's neck, stroking consolingly, hoping that his warmth would seep in to John's body and sooth muscles that must be positively aching by now. Sherlock remembered it well, and he wished John didn't have to know what it felt like.

John shook his head. "You grew out of it." He said. "You drink from the donors every day, and you're still bonded to me. When will I stop being dependent on you?" As soon as he was, he was going to leave. This torture spared for another one. The one of being completely alone. The one of being away from Sherlock. Maybe it would be more easily managed. Maybe not. He really had no way of telling until he tried. "I can't drink from you again, Sherlock. I can't." There were still tears running down his face, and he was sniffling now, his own tears wet against Sherlock's neck.

Sherlock swallowed several times, petting John's hair, unmindful of the tears that were slowly soaking the neck and shoulder of his shirt. "Shh, it's alright, I know you can't. It's alright." He kept his voice low and as soothing as possible, trying to allay John's tears. He stopped to consider, counting days and trying to guess on things that had no real logical nature. "I would say soon, I guess. It has been a week for you, and it faded for me a week ago." Sherlock wondered if he should ask about the bond, if he should ask John if he wanted to break it. Sherlock's muscles tensed at the thought and he winced. But John had known about it all this time, surely if he had wanted it broken he would have said? All he would have needed to do was ask, was to question whether it could be undone. Sherlock, despite how much it would have hurt, would have shown him how to break it. Gods, but he didn't want to end it. When John left it would be his last and only link to him.

John remembered then what Sherlock had asked him, that. he'd ignored at the time because of delirious pain. Why had he kept his bond a secret? John swallowed. There were lots of reasons. "I'm not sorry I didn't tell you. You were better off not knowing. It doesn't change anything, except that it makes it hell to be around you and hell to not be around you. It's just a cruel tease and you shouldn't get your hopes up." He swallowed. "And I didn't want you to end it. I just don't." He wanted to know if Sherlock was in danger, and he wanted to know if he was okay. The rest of this torture was worth that. "It happened as soon as I woke up, I could feel it. You were holding my hand."

Sherlock fought down the joy at being able to keep the bond and the unhappiness that always seemed to be hanging around him lately, so not to overwhelm John. Now that he knew the bond connected both ways he would make an effort to stamp down his more volatile emotions, at least until he could rebuild the wall - not all the way, but just enough so that they wouldn't be driving each other insane. Especially since John wouldn't be within easy reach soon, and if they felt each other’s every tiny reaction, they really might go insane since they wouldn't be able to place the reason why. Sherlock licked his lips and drew away slightly so that he could look at John's face. "I understand. It- it makes sense, since it had already been active on my end...You changed and it- latched on, I suppose." Sherlock idly ran his hands lightly up and down John's back, trying to help with the after effects of what the command word caused.

John could feel Sherlock doing it, pushing his feelings down. He didn't want Sherlock to do that, it wasn't healthy, but he wasn't really anyone to tell Sherlock to let it all out. John almost felt like purring at the hand on his back. It felt good and soft and right. Sherlock's touch practically healed him.  It helped that Sherlock understood, and accepted John's feelings on the issue. John hadn't wanted to hurt Sherlock more by making him think that John might stay because of the bond. "For a while I couldn't feel you. Until just now. What is that?" He asked softly, his own hands reaching up and tangling in Sherlock's shirt. "Maybe we could do that again. Feeling what you're feeling is... tough."

Sherlock sighed quietly and continued stroking at John's back, the other hand moving to take its previous position of petting John's hair. If Sherlock's touch helped, and it seemed to be, he would gladly offer it, even if that meant it would just hurt him more later on. "It was a block- like a mental wall. I can re-do it, but it will take me some time for it to be as strong as the one before. Your...previous emotions...were strong enough to completely overwhelm it." Sherlock's eyes fell closed as he began re-building. It took several moments of concentration, because now that he knew the bond went both ways, he didn't really want it in place. It was against his inherent nature to block this off. Sherlock kept up the motion of his hands while he worked, lost in thought but not so lost he would stop offering John comfort.

John closed his eyes tight. He'd wanted to die, but he was so afraid. Here, in Sherlock's arms, it was hard to want to be nothingness than be here.  John nodded. "It's hard to feel what you're feeling." He said softly. And it was. Even then he could feel Sherlock pain at seeing him with that gun in his mouth, and it was immense. "I'm sorry, Sherlock. Like I said, you shouldn't have had to see that."  He actually rubbed gently at Sherlock's chest, trying to comfort him. John didn't want to think about how fucked up he was. It was easier to think of Sherlock, because he would be easier to fix, and John had interest in making him feel well. John felt that he himself was a lost cause.

If John was a lost cause, then Sherlock himself was as well. There would be no comforting him, because Sherlock couldn't be whole until John was as well, and it was as simple as that. Even if they hadn't been bonded, Sherlock still wouldn't feel quite right until John was. "You shouldn't have been forced to it, John," He answered in a quiet whisper, still focused on building the wall. His own emotions were becoming dulled for John, until they were barely there. Particularly violent or intense emotions would leak through, but at the moment the most John would get would be an odd feeling that he couldn't attest to his own being. "There." He said, opening his eyes up again. "That is the best I can do at the moment. With time it will strengthen, until everything is completely blocked." He admired the fact that his voice was steady for that entire sentence, only breaking on the very last word. That was much better than it could have been.

John actually let out a soft sigh of relief. "Thank you." he murmured. "It hurts to feel your pain all the time." He elaborated. There was a long silence where John didn't move. He thought he could probably get up now, even though it would be a pain, but he didn't want to. He wanted to stay there, in Sherlock's arms, and never go. John shook his head. "What am I going to do, Sherlock?" He didn't have a clue how to proceed, how to live his life, how to manage himself. "How am I going to live like this?" John sounded so very hopeless. He didn't know how to do it, and he thought that even if he did know how he couldn't be capable of doing it.

Sherlock pulled John closer, taking the fact that he hadn't tried to move yet as consent, until he was all but cuddling the other man, as if, if he held John tight enough, all this pain would go away. "I don't know, John. You'll be able to drink the donor blood soon, and then you can- can leave. After that...I don't know. Just...live. Keep pushing forward." Sherlock's hand momentarily spasmed on John back as he considered what doing the opposite of that would be - exactly what he'd walked in on moments ago. And this time, Sherlock wouldn't be around to stop him. Even if he kept tabs on John to make sure he stayed safe, if John decided to try to kill himself again, Sherlock most definitely wouldn't be able to make it to him in time. Sherlock felt himself twitch in sheer horror at the thought of what would have happened if he'd been just a second too late in coming through that door.

Those emotions were strong enough that John could feel them, and he winced himself at the wretched feeling. He was the cause of that, he knew. It was all because he'd been too weak to carry on. He swallowed. He still was. But Sherlock. John couldn't hurt him like this again. "Living as a vampire is completely different from living as a human." He informed Sherlock.  He took a very, very long pause and then he said, "Feeding from you again, like that, would be worse than dying. But what would be even worse than that would be making you feel like that." John said, referring to the feelings Sherlock was imagining having, if John truly had shot himself. "So... I'll try. Until something even worse comes along, at least."

Sherlock let out a slow, long breath as he listened to John speaking. He'd try. He'd try and he wouldn't go right out and shoot himself once he'd left. That was honestly all Sherlock could ask for. He knew this was difficult for John, but he hadn't realized it would be so difficult that he'd rather end his life than live on. "Good. Good." Sherlock sighed and looked down at John. "Perhaps we should put you in a bed. Your body must be aching right now..." Again, he thought about offering a warm bath and a massage. Instead he only mentioned the first. "Perhaps a warm bath first?" Sherlock could help him in to it and then leave so as to not make it any more awkward than it had to be.

By now John hs mostly managed to stop crying. John thought about it, and then nodded. That sounded heavenly, but he could hear that slight, self deprecating lilt in Sherlock's voice, and it made him sick. "Will you stay with me?" He asked. "Not too close, but just...There?" Being close to Sherlock that way, warm, naked, kissing, touching, that would be too much, but he didn't think he could manage to leave Sherlock completely. Even just getting up out of his arms made him panic a little. He couldn't stay, and he didn't want to be with Sherlock, and it hurt to get too close to him, but damnit, at a time like this he had a right to some comfort at the hands of his mate.

Sherlock cupped John's face lightly with a hand, running his thumb over his cheekbone, before dropping it and nodding. "Alright. Now, this is probably going to hurt an awful lot. Deep breath." He proceeded to lift John up ever so gently, knowing that even the slightest motion would probably sting and burn. Sherlock hauled him up until he could grip the wrist of one of John's arms, pulling it over his shoulder, and his other arm wrapped around John's waist. This way he could most of John's weight, but he wouldn't be carrying him. He'd considered that, but the thought of holding John close to his chest made him feel as if he were taking advantage, using his pain to cuddle him close.

John was very pro-cuddle at the moment, but this particular position was the way one generally helped a weak or wounded soldier to somewhere safe, so he didn't think anything of it, other than to let himself be hauled up. It took a moment, as his legs were wobbly, but he finally got his balance, but the lifting had hurt so much that he hadn't managed to do it silently, instead letting out a strangled grunting noise. He laid his forehead on Sherlock's shoulder and caught his breath, before nodding and straightening up. "Alright." He said, tipping his head towards the door.

Sherlock tucked John in close to his own body, then stepped forward, all but lifting John up while he walked. The entire way to the loo he kept glancing over at John, estimating his pain levels, because if it got too high he would stop and then wait to move. Finally he reached the other room and gently sat John down on the closet toilet. "One moment," He said, then turned to flick the taps on, running hot water. Their skin was more resistant to heat, but weak against the cold. It was why he was always in that great coat of his, why he always had gloves on. But John's skin could take a lot of heat now, and the water that might have been scalding before now would be pleasant and hot. He turned back around, eyes running up and down John. Right. How were they going to do this? "Would you, ah, like help? Getting undressed?" Sherlock may not be an animal, but despite claims to the contrary, he also was not a robot. Stripping John of his clothing would be a study in self-control.

It would also have been an unhealthy dose of exactly the kind of closeness John was trying to avoid. He'd managed the painful trek downstairs well enough, but he couldn't handle too much in the way of Sherlock right now, the same way he couldn't handle too little of him.  John shucked off his jumper and the t-shirt beneath, moving in slow, smooth movements, and then reached out so Sherlock would help him up into a standing position, bracing a hand on his shoulder as he got out of his trousers. "Thanks." He said softly, tossing his discarded clothing away, and then leaned against Sherlock slightly to help him stay upright as he waited for the water level to rise. He wasn't self-conscious of being naked in front of Sherlock, of course. They were just a _bit_ past that by now.

Sherlock gripped the hand on his shoulder, thankful he hadn't had to peel away John's clothing. That would have been a bit much for him to handle. Sherlock averted his gaze while he helped John lower himself in to the water, not for anyone's modesty, but simply because it would have led to him staring rather a lot, and that wasn't needed at the moment. This was most likely the last time he would get to see all of John's skin, and he was ignoring it. No, no, of course he wasn't bitter. Sherlock's lips ticked up in a self-deprecating smile. "I could sit with my back to the tub, if you'd like? Close, but not...there." Personally, he didn't want to be any farther from John than he had to at the moment, but likewise he didn't really want to be in the tub with him, like John had been when he'd ended up in Sherlock's lap. But the bond was all but begging for him to stay close after the emotional upheaval of walking in on John's attempted suicide. Who was Sherlock to deny it?

The noise John made when he stepped into the warm tub water was almost obscene. It felt so good on his tortured muscles, and he was instantly grateful to Sherlock for suggesting it. He made another warm hum and let his head loll back onto the porcelain, and then he opened his eyes to look at Sherlock. He was about to tell Sherlock not to be silly, to come sit next to him, to not separate them more than necessary because John would be the judge of what was too close in the delicate balance of his sanity, but he had an idea then , and nodded. “Yes. Sure."

Sherlock dropped gracefully to the ground, crossing his legs underneath of him while he put his back against the porcelain tub, screwing his eyes shut at the sound John made as the water hit his body. That was just simply unfair. It was a good thing he had the mental block up, otherwise John would be feeling Sherlock's persistent arousal and his guilt over it. He sat in silence, with nothing to say, simply allowing the bond to soak up the general closeness of his mate. Sherlock's fingers idly tapped out a melody on his knee.

After a long moment, John lifted his hand from where it rested on the side of the tub to lightly rest on Sherlock's head. "May I?" He asked softly. This might be too much for Sherlock, but John thought that this would be good comfort for both of them, and a bit more personal than just holding hands. John wanted anything to make him feel close, and this was just perfect for him.

Sherlock froze for a moment in surprise, but tipped his head back slightly in silent approval. His eyes slid closed as the bond positively throbbed in his head. Oh, it liked this, and so did he. Almost more than he'd liked kissing John earlier. The physical bit of having John's hand in his hair didn't matter that much, even though it was pleasant, but what mattered was the intimacy of it. John still cared enough to want to comfort Sherlock, even though he should by all rights be disgusted simply sitting in the same room, and that in itself comforted him a lot.

It wasn't only for Sherlock. The pleasure that John felt slipping his hand into Sherlock's warm, soft curls was no small thing. This was something that he'd loved when they'd been truly together, and he didn't love it any less now. He was glad that Sherlock had agreed to this, because if he hadn't, John had no doubt that the water would now feel a little bit cold with the disappointment of rejection. "This was a good idea." He said softly, after a few minutes of quiet enjoyment of this closeness.

Sherlock hummed in approval, tipping his head back even more. An unintended side effect of that, though, was him basically stretching out and presenting his throat to John. "It was. I remembered how much it helped me when you used the command word, so it made sense the warmth would help you as well." He knew John wasn't just speaking about the bath, that he probably meant the general closeness of it all, but he didn't say anything about it. He was tired of everything, and this helped, the side-stepping of emotional things, but not enough. He was just so bunt out. Tired of pretending like he wouldn't break when John left. Of being in constant pain. He imagined it wasn't any better for John.

John was sick of it too. He'd been so very sick of it that he'd been willing to end it all, even without any hope of an afterlife, just to end it. But Sherlock would be broken if he left like that, John had known it before but knew it even more strongly now. He couldn't do that to Sherlock. Maybe it was the bond, or just good old fashioned selfless love, but John couldn't leave Sherlock to that kind of guilt. Sherlock would suffer enough when John left Baker Street. Even that was more hurt than Sherlock deserved as punishment. After an even longer moment, John said softly, "Moments like these might be the only heaven I get." He chewed on his lower lip. Not that he didn't hurt, but this was probably the best he could hope for in this new life.

Sherlock was saddened by that. Sitting here with him, in pain, was the closest John could get to heaven? If Sherlock hadn't already been determined to watch from afar after John left, he was now. He would do his damndest to make John's life as pleasant as possible, all from the shadows so that John didn't even know it was happening. This man deserved the best he could get, and if Sherlock had bound him to this life, then the least he could do was make it happy. Sherlock shuffled and slid down a bit, so that his shoulders were at the rim of the tub and his long legs stretched out in front of him. "If I could, I would blackmail God in to letting you in to Heaven, John. If anyone deserves it, it is you."

Sherlock pressed his head up in to John's hand, making a soft, pleased noise that could probably be described as a purr. "It's Mycroft. I'm certain he knows someone of every race." Sherlock didn't plan on stalking John or trying to influence him, he just wanted to make sure that things went smoothly and well for him. And he certainly had the contacts for that, and the will to get things done. "Besides, I do in fact know an angel. Mrs. Hudson. Doubt she'd help me bribe God, though. That might upset her." But that would be an interesting case, wouldn't it? Looking for dirt on God himself. Ha. Sherlock was certainly going to hell for blasphemous thoughts.

John couldn't help the way his lips quirked at hearing that sound. Sherlock was so much like a cat sometimes, lazy unless something was particularly of interest, and stretched out and slept at weird hours, and was good on a hunt. It was endearing. But John frowned and looked at him when he spoke. "What do you mean she's an angel?" John asked. He hadn't questioned once how he'd gotten back to Baker Street after that whole mess, or anything about what had happened that day. He'd been too freaked out about his new, terrible life.

Sherlock cracked open an eye and tipped his head back at a disturbing angle so that he could look at John. "She is an angel. She rescued us, John. If not for her, well. We would both most likely be in much worse shape. Moriarty shot me in the shoulder and you in the leg, and I doubt he was going to just leave it at that. She appeared out of nowhere, wrapped him up and sent him off. She took care of the bodies, explained things to me, and then came back here to continue watching. She's...our guardian angel." Sherlock smiled softly. He was very fond of the older woman, even if she wasn't so much of a woman as an ethereal being from a higher plane.

John blinked as he let that all sink in. "Like, an angel, angel?" He swallowed, and he remembered now- Looking down through to fog, hearing Sherlock, and having a conversation with the being of light. He swallowed. "I, uh, met her. Saw her true form." He chewed his lip. "She was beautiful. She felt good just to be around." It was the last time he'd felt good. He'd felt human, and he could remember the feeling, and it felt beautiful. "So...That was actually her? She's been here all along?" He swallowed. "What happened to Moriarty then?"

Sherlock smiled wider. He remembered that feeling he'd soaked up just by standing around her, the warmth and soothing nature of it. He was not a touchy-feely kind of person, but he'd wanted to just hug her and stand there with a large grin on his face. "Yes, that was her. She'd mentioned she spoke to you. She was very concerned over you. Like a mother, really." John's next question caused him to lose the smile. Sherlock brought his head back up in a normal position, a snarl echoing around the room at the mention of the madman. "She took him. I wanted to get to him, but she sent him back to Heaven to be judged. He's not within my reach now." And he was bitter about that. Sherlock wanted his revenge, wanted to make him pay for as long as possible, and then end his life. Sherlock wanted to somehow snatch Moriarty's soul from him in return for John's inability to get in Heaven.

John smiled softly. "I'll have to go downstairs and thank her, then. She always was a sweet woman. I'd never have thought..." He smiled and shook his head. The being he'd spoken to, it was her. He'd trusted that light so much, wanted to lose himself in the warm feeling of her light and her love. Maybe he still could. Maybe it would revive him.  Sherlock's next words were not as wonderful. He swallowed, worried on Sherlock's behalf. "If he was powerful enough to get to us, what chance do you think you stand? If he was powerful to do all this..." John swallowed, and then his eyes screwed up. "Wait a second. Did he even tell you why he did it? Why he made me the way I am?"

Sherlock’s snarl got louder. He knew he didn't stand a chance against a being such as Moriarty, or hell, even Mrs. Hudson, but he still wanted to have a go at it. Maybe he'd get Mycroft's help. Surely he would have something in his arsenal to use to take down an angel? He ground his teeth together, not wanting to answer John's questions. "Me. He did this to you because of me. He was playing with me. Using you. Because he found me interesting," Sherlock spat the final word, and John could feel his intense loathing and hate through the bond, even though it was blocked off. Before, Sherlock might have been equally interested in the other man, would have been intrigued by having someone to match wits with, equally as fascinated in another genius. But not now. Not after he had done this to John, not after he had cost Sherlock this. Now it was just simple, mindless loathing, and he would do anything in his power to pay Moriarty back for it.

John was actually frightened by Sherlock's growl. He was a frightening creature, and even more because he was a new, weak vampire. It was terrifying on an instinctual level. On the other hand, it also made him feel safe. He knew Sherlock would protect him at all costs, because John would give his life for Sherlock in a second, and not just because he valued his life so little. Sherlock's explanation made him go cold. "That's...It? That's the only reasons he...he...Tore apart dead people and stitched me together and then wrote my entire life for me!? _That’s all_?!" John wasn't mad at Sherlock for it. He was enraged and incredulous and indignant that that was his whole purpose in life. He was getting himself worked up over it too, his pulse throbbing in his throat. "God, oh god... What the _fuck_!?"

Sherlock shrank away from John so that they were no longer touching, hunching forward and crossing his legs in front of him, not turning to look, the growl stopping instantly in the face of John's emotions. John might have been frightened by Sherlock's noises, but Sherlock was disgusted by John's own. Not at John, certainly, but at himself. He felt horrible, worse than. It was his fault that this had happened, of course, and it was his fault John had to suffer this. He had been the cause. If not for him, Moriarty wouldn't have had reason to create John. "Yes. That's all. He did it because he was a twisted bastard, but I was the reason. I'm sorry. I'm sorry I was the reason for this. For this life you don't want." Sherlock shrank further away against the urge to turn around and throw himself at John, to hold him in his arms.

John sat up out of the tub a bit with a little sound of effort, so he could see Sherlock better. His thought process was completely derailed by Sherlock's angst. "Damnit, Sherlock, don't create pain that you don't have to!" John's next noise was of frustration. He absolutely could not believe what he was hearing. "Sherlock, the only reason is that he's a fucking nutter. You can't expect me to be happy that my entire life's purpose was to be a play-toy because some psychopath was bored! But it's not your fault. It's more Watson's fault than it is yours, but you wouldn't lay the blame on him, so stop fucking torturing yourself!" He huffed, letting off steam. "It hurts when you do that." He continued softly, because he could feel Sherlock's self-loathing and disgust clear as day. He wouldn't let Sherlock run the way he was. With a bit of exertion, John leaned, dripping, out of the tub and rubbed gentle circles on Sherlock's back. "Get back up here, I can't reach your head when you're all hunched over like that."

Sherlock shook his head. "He was a twisted psychopath, yes, but you can't deny that it is my fault you are as you are at the moment. I did this to you. I believe I deserve to be tortured." Sherlock didn't turn around or shuffle back to his previous position, but his shoulders lost their hunched posture under John's hot hands. The water had made him warm, and that transferred in to the muscles in Sherlock's back. He allowed himself one low, drawn out sigh, and then he set to work stomping down his emotions. John didn't need to feel that. Sherlock shivered under John's hands as the water dripped down his back, running down his spine with a tickling sensation.

"Agh!! Sherlock, I said stop it! Not "justify it to yourself and make yourself feel even worse."” He huffed and continued rubbing with a new, slow trail up and down Sherlock's back. "You don't deserve to be tortured, you idiot." The idea of it killed him. It had hurt so much to see Sherlock in pain when he used the word, and now even more so since he knew what it felt like. "The only thing you did wrong was turn me. My life, and everything he did to us- That's his doing, not yours. As for punishment..." He swallowed and then continued quietly, "Any punishment that you well and truly deserved, you've already gotten tenfold from this whole situation. Even if you fucked up, you don't deserve this kind of pain." John could see Sherlock relaxing, but he really hoped he was being truly soothing.

Sherlock made a soft sound in the back of his throat that had no name, and finally straightened up so that John didn't have to lean so far to touch him. He didn't verbally acknowledge what John said, but his gratitude and love for the other man flashed strong past the wall for a brief moment. It was nice to know that John did not blame him for the other stuff, and that he thought Sherlock was punished enough for turning him. Of course, Sherlock couldn't just stop believing he needed more punishment, because that wouldn't happen until his guilt over it went away, and he didn't see that happening for quite a long time, if ever. Finally he twisted, turning to look at John He grabbed one of John's hands and squeezed once. "You should lean back. Stretching and moving so soon after cannot be good on your body." He let go after he'd finished speaking.

John grasped his hand back. "Only if you don't lean away from me again. I can deal with sore muscles. What I can't deal with is you being such an idiot." Now his voice was soft, loving. John did lean back though, just as he'd been told to, but he pulled Sherlock's hand with him, keeping it warm and decidedly his even as he moved a bit away from Sherlock. The love that he felt...How was he going to be able to leave that? John was terrified of it. And he was usually only truly afraid unless there was a fair chance of him dying or being shot again.

Sherlock twisted around until he was half facing the tub, so that John could keep ahold of his hand and Sherlock wouldn't have to pop his arm out of socket to allow it. His fingers wrapped tight around John's own, his thumb stroking back and forth idly. This was nice. Lovely. Companionable. Sherlock leaned to the side, resting up against the tub. "I make no promises." He responded to John accusing him of being an idiot. "If I am an idiot, I shudder to think of what the rest of humanity is. They must have the collective IQ of a rock."

Sherlock was right, it was lovely. John hadn't been kidding when he'd said that this was as close to heaven as he could imagine being in this life. "I expect you to be an idiot in that spectacular Sherlock way, not eating and getting yourself into trouble just to prove you're cleverer than everyone else. It's the self-flagellation I can't stand." He gave Sherlock's hand a squeeze, feeling the wonderful warmth. His bathwater was starting to cool down. "And yes...That's us. Amoebas of knowledge." His voice was soft and adoring. Sherlock was a wonder, and John felt that he needed to soak him up for as long as possible. "I should get out of this tub before I get all pruny." He said. He let out a breath. "You want to grab me a dressing gown? I can get up on my own, I think."

As much as Sherlock liked to hear John's voice like that, all soft and loving, it also hurt almost too much. Sherlock knew he needed to appreciate it while he had it because it would be gone soon, but hearing that tone directed at him while he was unable to act on it...it was painful and frustrating. Sherlock stood in one smooth motion and dropped John's hand. "Of course. One moment." He turned to leave, the mental block once more iron solid so that John couldn't feel any of his love or his pain, and made his way to John's room. Sherlock snatched up John's dressing gown and stalked back out to the loo, sighing as he did so. If John didn't leave soon, they were going to drive each other insane with their emotions- though, to be fair, Sherlock felt like he might go insane when John left as well. "Got it," He announced as he stepped back in to the room, holding the object in question up.

John didn't know that his soft, affectionate words were hurting Sherlock so badly, but he certainly would have understood if he did. Sherlock was treating him softly too, and it was a bitter sort of thing. It was wonder neither of them had gone completely mad yet. By the time Sherlock got back, he had dried himself off and was standing up, and he gratefully took the offered dressing gown and put it on, tying it around his waist. Then he took a step, closing the distance between them, and he put an arm around his shoulders, leaning up to give him a soft kiss on the cheek. "Thank you, Sherlock. For everything." He sat back on his heels and let his hand drop. "I think I'm going to sleep a bit. I....You can stay with me if you like." This time it was note a plea, but just an invitation. "If you don't...I'll be alright." He didn't mean that he would feel alright if he was alone. He meant that he wouldn't try and off himself again.

Sherlock's eyes slid closed at the gentle kiss to his cheek, his breath catching for just a moment. He supposed John could have been lying before about Sherlock having been punished enough, and this was his way of going about it. Otherwise, why would he act this way, why be so nice and, dare he say, loving, when it was only a matter of time before he left and took Sherlock's heart with him? Sherlock was torn, whether he should accept John's invitation or not. In the long run this familiarity would make it harder when they separated for good, but the offer was very, very tempting. Sherlock wondered if John would let him hold him while he slept, if he went. Probably not. Was it worth it to join him and then ask? In the end he opened his eyes up and nodded, unable to verbally answer because it felt like his heart had permanently lodged itself in his throat. Impossible, of course, but that is still what it felt like. The body was such an odd thing, vampire or not. Emotions and how they affected the body were not his specialty, but it was occurring to him that the design of it all was faulty. Who in their right mind wanted to feel like this? He needed to have some words with Mrs. Hudson's boss. This was ridiculous, and he hated every moment of it, but still he wouldn't trade it. When pressed he didn't know what his answer would be if someone asked if he would trade all of this pain for never meeting John. On one hand, it was agonizing. On another...Despite it all, he didn't regret meeting John. Sherlock was so incredibly confused at the moment that is was most likely palpable.

John couldn't help the tiny twitch to his lips. It wasn't quite a smile, but it was something tiny and accepting and lovely. "Right." He said, not knowing about Sherlock's inner turmoil. He made his slow, careful way back to his bedroom. He got there before Sherlock, but not quickly enough before Sherlock came in and saw John with the gun in his hands. He'd been picking it up to take out the bullets and put it away, but he couldn't help but stop and admire it. It was beautiful, and using it would have been such a simple solution, but he was already glad it hadn't worked. If he'd completed his task, he wouldn't have ever gotten the opportunity to run his fingers through Sherlock's hair a last time, or to let Sherlock know that being with him was heaven. It was worth not being dead right now for those things. John didn't look up when he came in, and ran his fingers over the barrel instead. He wondered now if Sherlock regretted giving it to him.

Sherlock followed him in to the room slowly, dreading but looking forward to this at the same time, but his eye twitched as he caught sight of the gun in John's hands. He'd been ambivalent towards it to begin with, as it was just a weapon and then a gift, but now he loathed the damn thing. John would have been the one to end his life, but it would have been with this gun, and suddenly Sherlock hated it. He hissed quietly at the sight of it, a noise that normally John wouldn't have heard, but Sherlock forgot to take in to account the fact that John now had a vampires hearing. He stalked forward, warily, eyeing the thing like it might leap up and bite - or as if John might turn it around and shoot himself. The thing made him twitchy, despite how much John clearly liked it.

John's head popped up as soon as he heard that noise from Sherlock. It was still just as frightening as ever. He followed Sherlock's eyes down to the gun, and he winced. He hadn't meant to do that, make Sherlock think about what had almost happened. He opened up the barrel and let Sherlock watch him take the bullets out. He bit his lower lip, then he gave all six bullets to Sherlock, picking up Sherlock's hand and dropping them in. He stepped to the bedside table and got the box of silver bullets and he gave that to Sherlock too. If John needed to kill himself, he could find a way, but he knew Sherlock would feel better, because he knew that John would need to actively find a way before he could do it. "I'm keeping the gun." He said softly. "It was a gift. It's important." He went back to admiring it and running his fingers softly over it. It was

Sherlock swallowed and clenched his hands tight around the bullets and the case. He thought about returning them to John, to show that he trusted him not to turn around once Sherlock was gone and shoot himself, but honestly it set his mind at ease. Sherlock caught John's gaze and simply stared for a long moment, then smiled slightly to show his gratitude for this. John could just as easily kill himself by some other mean, but mainly it was the worth of the gesture that counted. "Thank you," He said softly, placing the normal bullets and the case on top of John's dresser, to be retrieved once Sherlock left the room. "Good. I want you to keep it with you. For...protection." He didn't say that he also wanted John to keep it and think of him every time he saw it. That might have been a bit not good, considering. He'd still have the gun.

It didn't matter why Sherlock wanted him to keep it. Even if John never used it again, he would keep it. Since Sherlock asked, he'd even keep it with him. It would be a reminder of Sherlock. As if he'd need one, with the bond. As if he'd need one at all.  "I will." He met his eyes with Sherlock's. "It's precious to me." He swallowed and then took a deep breath, running a last hand over the gun, resisting the urge to kiss it, and put it back in its drawer. Then he took a moment to swap out his dressing gown for some drawstring pants and a t-shirt before he got into bed. He looked up at Sherlock. "Uhm..." This was awkward. "Did you want to...?" He didn't know what he would be comfortable with or not. He thought maybe he would let Sherlock lead, do what he was comfortable with and wanted to do, and if adjustments needed to be made he'd make them.

Sherlock bit his lip, standing still and simply looking at John on the bed. That drew up rather unfortunate thoughts. Sherlock pushed them away and tipped his head to the side, considering. Was John offering to let him in the bed with him? Sherlock nodded and slowly climbed in to the bed, all longs limbs and smooth motions. "Feel free to kick me to the floor if you would like," He said in a light tone, but his words were quite serious. If John suddenly felt too overwhelmed, Sherlock was giving him permission to quite literally kick Sherlock out of the bed if it would make him feel better. In the meantime, Sherlock would soak up the joy he got at physical closeness. The bond still seemed to be craving it like a greedy, half-starved thing. In a way it was starved. Ever since it had formed on John's end and fully linked them, they had been staying away from each other. It was no wonder, then, that it seemed to be crying out in sheer relief in Sherlock's head.

John sighed softly. "I won't kick you off. Might kick you. Might ask you to get off. Won't kick you off." He budged over a bit to give Sherlock room, and then turned on his side towards him. Sherlock wasn't getting up close, but that was to be expected. He swallowed. "I mean...You can try...More. If you think it's a good idea. If you want to. If I don't want it I'll make you stop." It was just that easy. He wanted a good sleep, and he slept best in Sherlock's arms. He sure was exhausted, though. Full body cramps tended to do that to you. He wished he would allow Sherlock to give him a rub down, but that would be too close.

Sherlock made his way to the other side of the bed and put his back to the headboard, stretching his legs out in front of him and folding his hands on his lap. He made no move for a long stretch of time, just sat staring down at his clasped hands. This was his way of allowing John time to adjust, he supposed. Really he just wasn't trying to rush things, because if he rushed then John might push him away. Finally he shifted over a bit, feeling ridiculously like he was approaching a wild animal. How ludicrous. He gazed down at John, a silent question in his eye; was he going to allow this? Sherlock slid down the headboard a bit, opened his arms, let John come to him if he wanted to. In this situation it was really best to let John lead, since he was the one most likely to want to withdraw.

John just watched Sherlock for those long minutes. He didn't reply. He just sat and looked uncomfortable. Right when John was about to apologize for offering in the first place, Sherlock moved, sliding down and opening his arms to John. John gave a little huff. Sherlock really didn't understand, did he? John decided to just bite the bullet. Sherlock didn't seem get that he could make the decisions and decide what to do, and John would be fine with it unless it, well, wasn't fine. John sighed and scooched forward into Sherlock's arms, gently situating his face in the dip between the detective’s neck and shoulder. "You're still and idiot." He murmured, situating one arm under Sherlock's own and up his back, so his fingers could gently play with the curls at the nape of his neck.

Sherlock huffed, wrapping his arms tight around John's body, tilting his head back and to the side to accommodate John's face in his neck and his hand in his hair. "So you have told me, yes." He replied. Sherlock wondered if John knew he was the only one who Sherlock would allow to call him an idiot. All the others would be verbally eviscerated the moment they began to speak. In fact, they often were, in the case of Anderson or Sally. Sherlock inhaled a long, deep breath that filled his lungs with the scent of John. His eyes slid closed in contentment and he began humming softly, a noise once again reminiscent of a small animal making pleased sounds.

John had never heard those noises from Sherlock before. He was surprised at the instinctual reaction he had to them. They calmed him, and they gave him that endearing feeling one got when one pet a purring cat. He chuckled softly, letting his eyes drift closed. "When I told you that I didn't mind you making noises in bed, I didn't expect this." He said softly, and it was just a bit of affectionate humor. After another few, long moments, something in John's chest urged him on. He felt silly, but he swallowed and softly began to hum in the same way. It wasn't a sound he'd have been capable of making as a human, that was for sure.

Sherlock smiled at John's words, even though there was a quick, momentary flash of sadness at remember when John had said that. His eyes flew open, though, and he lost his smile in surprise at John copying the noise. Sometimes he forgot that John was of the same race as him now, because John was still inherently the same, but then things like this happened and Sherlock would tense up in shock. But his muscles quickly relaxed and the smile came back, wider and more tender now. Sherlock nuzzled at the hair on top of John's head, never stopping the humming sound.

John hadn't realized that vampires could make noises like these. What he knew of them was limited, but he'd never expected that blood sucking monsters could be so soft, so nurturing. It was a bad assumption to make. Vampires were creatures like any other. They lived in clans and they bred and they loved and they lived life...It was stupid to have thought anything different. John was a little surprised himself, that he would make these sounds, soft crooning noises and high pitched rumbles that sounded almost like purrs. He wasn't doing it to react to Sherlock's noises. He wasn't humoring him. He'd honestly reacted to the feeling of being wrapped perfectly in his mate's arms. It was wonderful. He had to resist the urge to say "I love you" all over again.

John may have been resisting the urge to say it aloud, but Sherlock was chanting it in a soft, reverent voice in his head. He longed to whisper it in to John's ear, over and over again, but he didn't. Instead he just pulled John's body closer to him, dropping his head down to press his cheek to the top of John's head, eyes falling half closed. This was as content as he'd been ever since they'd received that text message from Moriarty. If he could he would stop time, hold them in this moment for ever, because soon it would end. Sherlock desperately did not want it to. He sighed softly, interrupting the humming with it, and felt himself go boneless and lax.

John didn't stop though. His noises kept going, because Sherlock had pulled him even closer. The bond, and John's heart, were elated. Sherlock wasn't purring anymore, though. Was he sad? Well, of course he was sad, John's rational, thinking mind said to the thoughtless innocence of the bond inside of him. He's probably bloody fucking depressed. I sure am. But the bond chittered back, how can you be unhappy when Sherlock's holding you tight, like you're the most precious thing in the universe and he'll never let you go? Because. I have to leave. That thought send the bond shriveling painfully in sympathy. John ached. That was the only way to describe it. He was so, so happy and so very sad and all at once and it was overwhelming.  He felt tears building behind his eyelids again but he didn't let them free. Still, he couldn't help the way that the emotion labored his breath, making it start and stop in strange, uneven intervals, interrupting his continued purring.

Sherlock was sad in the same way he'd been for the past day- a constant echoing hollowness that could sometimes be shoved aside and sometimes could not, but at all times it was there hovering in the background. At the moment, however, he was as happy as could be expected. More so, even, since he had no reason to suspect anything like this would happen ever again when he decided to turn John against his better judgment. At the moment he was damn well nearly ecstatic. His mate was close, wrapped safe in his arms, and they could ignore the world for the moment. Sherlock blinked and pulled his head back enough to look down at John as he noticed the labored breathing and the interruption of the humming. Sherlock's chest gave an odd pang as he realized what was happening. Instead of saying anything, as the English language was a traitorous bastard that abandoned Sherlock at the most important moments when it came to emotional matters, he retracted an arm from around John and began gently petting his hair, making the most soothing noises he was able. Sherlock was not used to offering comfort, but for John he would do anything. Obviously. "John," He said softly, voice low and more intimate than he had meant it to be, but it just slipped out that way, and he couldn't take it back. He didn't say anything else, just John's name in that tone.

That little sound was enough to make John tense up a bit more. Sherlock loved him. He'd do anything for him. He'd even gone against John's wishes for him, even though he knew John would be upset. If John needed to fall apart, there was no better place for him to do so than here in Sherlock's arms. John wasn't sure if it was the happiness of that realization or the pain that finally made him break down. It wasn't very manly, he knew, or strong. It wasn't very attractive, either. But it couldn't be shameful. Not in front of Sherlock, who would take everything he was and still love every bit. In a few moments, John was a crying, sniveling mess. With the hand on Sherlock's back he clutched Sherlock's shirt, keeping himself as close to the man as possible. The unsteady breathing became sobs became hiccups, and he shook with emotion of all kinds for many long minutes before they began to die down again, and John was making more noises he hadn't known he could make, tiny inhuman whispers that sounded like a hurt animal. When finally, he grew quiet, he softly whispered, "Sorry."

Sherlock made a distressed noise, dismayed to see John breaking down after he had attempted to comfort him. Sherlock shifted them until he was all but wrapping John up entirely in his arms, pulling him half in to his lap while John sobbed in to his shirt. The entire time Sherlock rubbed a warm hand up and down John's back, soothing concentric circles pressing in lovingly, Sherlock keeping up a steady stream of meaningless reassuring words. Anything to calm John down, anything to stop his sorrow. Sherlock simply hated seeing John like this. It made his chest ache, because this was his fault and he knew it. He didn't mind John breaking down, didn't look down on him for it or think him weak, because he loved him so much. Any other person he might have shoved away or stared at in disgusted interest. Not John. Never John. The inhuman noises of pain were driving him crazy, made him want to kiss the noises from John's throat. Eventually John cried himself out, but Sherlock did not let go, still held on to him tight. His fingers curled in to the jumper on John's back, the other hand still carding through hair and gently caressing the back of his neck. "It's fine," He replied, voice still soothing and still heartbreakingly loving. "It's all fine."

Sherlock shouldn't have thought that his comforting hadn't worked. It had worked well. It had let John know that he wasn't alone, that he was safe and in caring, open, tolerant arms. It had been good, hearing his name on Sherlock's tongue like that, and the breakdown, which had been about 70% anguish and 30% elation, was not all sad. It was just overwhelming. John relaxed even more when Sherlock told him it was fine, but he gave a shiver as the tension left him. Sherlock was telling the truth. This and anything else that John ever needed was fine. John's next hoarse, whispered words were "Thank you."

Sherlock buried his nose in the hollow of John's neck and shoulder, inhaling and nuzzling at the skin there, because if this was allowed at the moment he was damn well going to enjoy it. "You need not ever apologize to me for something like that, John. Never." And he meant it, completely and totally, because if there was one person in this world to whom Sherlock felt entirely devoted to, it was John Watson, and part of that involved happily holding the other man while he was broken or overwhelmed or just stressed. If he could make it better, he would. That may be sentimental, and he might have been disgusted at himself only a month earlier, but it was simply the truth now, and he had accepted it. "Better?" He asked after a beat of silence. Obviously John was, but this would keep the flow of conversation going, and Sherlock felt the need to hear John's voice, to actually reassure him that Sherlock had helped him.

John let out a shuddering breath. He did feel the need to apologize, but he knew he didn't actually have to. Even though he wasn't ashamed about acting that way, he was aware that it couldn't have been pleasant for Sherlock. Still, it had helped. "Yes." He replied. He didn't feel any less depressed, but he didn't feel like he might explode at any minute any longer. All of the tension was left out of it, and now he could breathe and think and that was a huge relief. "And knackered. Do you mind if I nod off?" He swallowed, and then forced himself to say, "You could go, if you wanted." He didn't want it. He didn't want it so much that even with the block Sherlock could feel that he didn't want it.

Sherlock exhaled slowly, slightly bowled over by the novelty of feeling John's emotions after not sensing them for so long - ignoring the heart-stopping emotions caused by his suicide attempt. Sherlock pulled back enough so that he could look John in the eye, raising an eyebrow slowly. "John. Do I look like I want to go?" He asked, voice forcefully light. It should have been obvious by now that he wouldn't leave until John shoved him away or left himself. Sherlock would stay wrapped tight around him for as long as possible. "Sleep. I will stay, as long as you do not mind." And he would attempt to ward off nightmares with his presence alone. Sherlock attempted a carefree smile, but he feared it was rather more open and emotional than he'd wanted it to be.

That stupid, so out of place smile made John's heart ache because it made him want Sherlock so much, and then his mind ached too, because he wanted to kiss that smile off of Sherlock's lips into something smaller and softer,  but he couldn't decide if that was really a good idea or not. The entire conflict made him stare at Sherlock's lips for a very long moment, before he did lean up and plant a solid kiss on him. It wasn't sexually charged, and there was no tongue, but it wasn't soft and chaste either. It was a kiss that meant something. Many something’s. Things like “I love you” and “I don't want to leave you” and “life is going to be hell without you”.

Sherlock's eyes involuntarily went lidded as he noticed John's own eyes on his lips. There was only one reason for a person to be so focused on someone else’s lips like that if the other person was not speaking, and it was obvious, and so he was not completely surprised when John leaned forward to kiss him. Oh, god, but it hurt in the same way it was pleasing. It was too much but yet not enough, he wanted to draw away but press closer, and his mind was in such a snarl that it was a moment before he followed the former instinct and jerked away, eyes screwed tight and lips pressing in to a firm line as if he were resisting the urge to grimace, his breathing labored. He couldn't- Sherlock wanted everything, he wanted it so much, but it was killing him inside, slowly but surely, because every moment of joy was tempered by the sorrow he knew was looming on the horizon. Fucking hell, he thought. How could John do something like that and then expect Sherlock not to simply attack him? Sherlock's body was all but vibrating with the need to press John to his back and bloody well ravage him. The kiss hadn't even been sexual, not at all, and Sherlock didn't even want sex so much as complete and utter physical closeness. The bond was once again playing havoc with his thoughts. He wanted it, the bond wanted it, why not give in, it whispered to him.

John hadn't been expecting that. He'd been expecting a wonderful piece of what they'd had before, jagging through the darkness with a bolt of forgiving, healing light. He didn't even care that they'd pierce them and make them bleed afterward. He hadn't been expecting Sherlock to actually jerk away. When John pulled away himself, he couldn't help the hurt that was reflected in his eyes. He wanted to rage at Sherlock, because that very well might have been their last chance, and Sherlock had ruined it, and also because why didn't Sherlock want to kiss him? John's disappointment was palpable, and it continued even after he realized the reason. For Sherlock, it was too much. "Sorry." He said, and meant it, and this time he did need to apologize, but at the same time, the disappointment didn't ebb. It hurt. He'd wanted that moment of contact dearly.

Sherlock winced, feeling incredibly guilty at putting the hurt look on John's face. He hadn't meant to do that, to pull away so soon like he had, but it had suddenly just become too much to handle without wanting even more, more than John would give, and he'd moved before he'd even realized it. "No, I'm sorry- I just- I-" Sherlock swallowed and wished he could take back the last few seconds, could do them over. He tightened his hold on John for a brief moment, tight enough to possibly hurt a human, to try and explain without words that he hadn't meant that the way it might have seemed, that he wasn't rejecting John, that it had simply been too overwhelming for him. He'd really screwed this up, hadn't it? And that might have been his last chance. John could feel Sherlock's dismay loud and clear over the bond, tinged with guilt and an overpowering storm of love and regret.

But obviously, Sherlock hadn't ruined anything. Not only was there not really anything to ruin, but John understood why he'd stopped. "No." He said, almost forcefully, meaning it. "It's alright. Really." He dropped his head and pressed the rest of his interrupted kiss softly to Sherlock's shoulder, knowing that couldn't possibly be too much. He was disappointed, but Sherlock hadn't done anything wrong. Not a thing. He shouldn't feel as badly about it as he did. "I'm going to get some rest, okay?" He said, laying his face back in its customary spot at Sherlock's neck. He knew he didn't need to tell Sherlock to enjoy it while it lasted. John almost wished he could be awake for all that time, soaking in the feeling of Sherlock.

It wasn't alright, not really. Sherlock had bolloxed this up quite thoroughly, and he hated himself for it. The kiss to his shoulder was certainly not too much, because it wasn't close enough at all. He could still feel the echo of John's disappointment, and he needed to correct it. "No," He repeated John, also almost forceful. He wasn't going to miss this, wasn't going to let the moment just pass. Last chance, a voice in his head whispered. Take it. Sherlock withdrew enough to lift John's face up by placing a single finger under his chin. "Carpe diem," He whispered, voice self-deprecating, and he leaned forward to press his lips against John's own, gentle and cautious. He waited, lips hovering just over John's own afterwards, watching intently for all possible reactions. He wasn't sure if this was acceptable after he had drawn away the first time, but he'd done it anyway.

John wasn't expecting Sherlock to retaliate, but the minute he felt that finger under his chin, he knew what was going to happen. He let it happen, prayed for it to happen. As his head was raised, his eyes caught Sherlock's. They were as clear and bright and silvery as ever. They were beautiful. John wondered for a moment if his own eyes had taken on that ethereal almost-glow that Sherlock's had, or if it wasn't a vampire thing, just something unique and wonderful about his beloved. Then Sherlock spoke, and John thought about how ridiculous it was for an immortal being to have the need to seize the day. John's dry laugh was swallowed by Sherlock's lips, and the kiss was wonderful, but it was too brief for John to kiss him back, and let him know just how very acceptable it was. He did know that having Sherlock kiss him was completely different now from him kissing Sherlock. The initiative, and the press there made in so much better. He swallowed when Sherlock pulled away. Finally, he said, "I think we're doing this wrong." And he kissed Sherlock again, gently this time but not really sweet and tender...It was just enough to not scare Sherlock away, so Sherlock could kiss him back, so they could each fully participate, the way it was supposed to be.

Sherlock raised a hand to the side of John’s face, cupping his jaw and stroking his thumb slowly over his cheekbone, smiling in to John’s lips.  He pressed closer, moving his lips in a slow motion. He didn’t deepen it or open his mouth to explore John’s own, and after several long moments on near bliss, he backed off.  ”That we are.” He moved away so that he could press another one to the cheek that wasn’t occupied by Sherlock’s fingers, locking his gaze with John’s. John might love Sherlock’s eyes, the silvery glow, the inhumaneness of them, but Sherlock loved John’s for the complete opposite reason. John’s eyes were so completely human, not just in the color but in their ability to express his emotions. People born to his race were raised in clans, taught to hide their emotions, taught that if the eyes were the gateways to the soul they needed to locked down and blocked off. John’s were so different, and Sherlock felt he could stare for ages.  He briefly considered placing a kiss to John’s forehead, but that would have been too intimate to him.

John would have loved that little kiss to the forehead. What point was there in denying what they were? There wasn't any at all. They were madly, irrevocably in love. They both knew it. They would be separated soon, but that didn't stop them from being what they were. Still, Sherlock hadn't done it, and that was alright too, because that kiss, a kiss where they both really participated, that was worth it. John looked right back at Sherlock, and his transparent eyes sowed nothing but the utter adoration he had for Sherlock. It was clear as day that he loved him. "Well, I'm glad we figured it out, then." He said softly, but the words were an afterthought in comparison to the conversation that was happening between their eyes. John lifted a hand to cup Sherlock's on his face. They were together, now. They should forget all the rest, and enjoy being together a last time.

Instead of kissing his forehead, Sherlock dropped his own to it and finally broke their eye contact, letting his lids slide down as he sighed in contentment. I love you, he thought towards John, and then decided that that fact couldn't have been more obvious, and he should say it out loud, and so he did. John was right in that they both knew it. No point stepping around it or pretending otherwise. Sherlock also knew that, while it was clear in John's eyes, he did not know if it was clear in his own. He had been blocking off emotions from showing there for so long that he was no longer sure if they showed up when he consciously tried, and so he simply said it out loud, whispered against John's skin, voice low but definitely audible to someone with John's level of heightened hearing. He didn't move after that, all but becoming a stone body besides John. To him, there was nothing else to do. This moment felt like a climax, and he was waiting for the steady downward slide of the story to take place, bringing them to the inevitable conclusion.

Rather than tensing up as Sherlock had, John sighed and relaxed even more. "I know." He replied just as softly. He did know, but it was so nice to hear. He wasn't sure if he should say it back to Sherlock. It had hurt him the last time, and he didn't want that again for right now...But he felt he should say something in return, rather than pulling the full Han Solo. "You know I do too, right?" He asked, because maybe that was better than just saying it. Suddenly it became a need to be certain that Sherlock knew. "I mean....You _know_?" It was true, that after this there was nowhere to go but down. As soon as John could stomach other blood he'd be gone. John swallowed. But he'd give Sherlock a real goodbye first. And a real thank you. Sherlock deserved it.

The last time Sherlock hadn't been prepared in the least, and he hadn't been ready for how much it had hurt to hear but know it meant nothing in the end. They loved each other, intensely and wholly, but they would still be separating. At the minute, though, he wouldn't have minded hearing it. John wanted to give him a real goodbye, but, for Sherlock, this felt like it. It was a time to say things that needed said. Even if John wasn't leaving for a while yet, this felt like goodbye to him. "I know," He said after a moment of heavy silence. "Say it. Please." Sherlock begged softly, and he purposefully didn't think about how ridiculous it was that he was begging for a statement of love when a year ago he would have scoffed at the very thought of that. But he had time to adjust, to prepare, it wasn't overwhelming as it was before, and he needed to hear it.

John had already wanted to say it, so he wasn't adverse to it. Sherlock needn't have begged. John's fingers rubbed softly over Sherlock's, and he said it, forcefully, with real conviction. And once he'd started, he couldn't stop. "I love you, Sherlock. I love you more than I've ever loved anyone, more than I ever thought I _could_ love anyone. And not just because of the bond, it's...I do, I really do, everything about you is-" He swallowed back emotion, but he could deal with it now. He just had to get the words out. "Well, you know. You have to know. Of course you do. I love you."

Sherlock moved to hold John's face in both of his hands, kissing him solidly on the lips once again, a harder press than the previous ones, but still not as deep or as thorough as it could have been. Afterwards he slid down until he was completely lying besides John, wrapping his arms around his waist and dropping his head to John's chest, where he could feel the strong, stubborn beat of his heart. He spoke against John's skin, "You are the most wonderful person I have ever met, John, and I will be eternally grateful that I've known you, even for a short amount of time. I love you so very much." And he didn't regret anything about meeting John - not even truly the bit where he changed him, because if he hadn't, John would be dead and lost to an endless sea of nothingness. Better all the pain for that short amount of happiness than to have never experienced it at all.

After that wonderful kiss, another one, miracle of miracles, John let out a long breath.  Sherlock's head was pillowed on his chest, and John felt like it was his turn to comfort Sherlock. He needed it just as much as he did, now. John let his head fall back to the pillows, and now he held Sherlock's head in his hands like it was a precious thing. He touched gently over Sherlock's scalp and through his hair and over his face, slowly, even more reverently than he'd held the gun. His emotions were tight in his throat again, and he was quiet for a long moment before he said softly, sincerely, "It was worth it. Being with you."

Sherlock's eyes screwed shut and he made a soft little sound in the back of his throat that sounded more like the mewl of a cat than anything. A part of him, a small part that still always shrunk away when Sally called him a 'freak' or Sebastian said how they hated him, believed that there could be no possible way John believed being with him was worth all of this. Sherlock had stolen his humanity, was the cause for him having to start his life all over again; how could he possibly be worth it? Sherlock shook his head very gently, but said none of the things he was thinking. He rarely did when they took on that tone. It would be quite out of character, wouldn't it? Not very much like a sociopath. Sherlock just pressed his face closer to John and sighed, letting the exhale carry out all of his negative thoughts. He whispered, soft and muffled by John's dressing gown, "Anything would be worth being with you." And his voice was heavy with his sincerity, because he truly believed that. Sherlock Holmes would do anything for John Watson. He would jump off a cliff if it needed done. He would shoot a man in cold blood, though John had already done that for him. "Anything." He repeated, tightening his fingers on their new position on Johns hips. Sherlock was certain John knew that already - after all, he'd turned John - but he felt it needed saying out loud, needed stating, because it was so very true.

John winced. It wasn't because to Sherlock, anything was worth being with him. That was wonderful. It made him feel warm and happy. He just wanted to return those words, and knew he couldn't. If weathering any storm was worth it to be with Sherlock, he wouldn't have been leaving. One of John's arms settled around Sherlock's shoulders as the other still pet through his hair. He gently tangled their legs together, crossing g one of his ankles over Sherlock's heels. He swallowed. "I'm sorry I can't say the same." He replied softly. "I do have to leave." He swallowed. "I can't stay here. But everything...I don't regret a single second of it. Even being brought back to like, as terrible as it is...It's worth these minutes."

Sherlock wiggled his body a bit so that they fit together more easily, helping John along with tangling their legs, and turned his head to the side so that he could press his ear to John's chest. "I understand, John," he said softly, "It...hurts. But I understand." And he did, completely, he knew why John was leaving and he knew that it was perfectly reasonable, but he still didn't want it to happen. Sherlock's thoughts were derailed, however, when he heard the end of John's sentence. He jerked his head up, eyes showing his surprise. "It's worth it? My turning you, it was worth it?" He held his breath for a moment, unbelieving. Sherlock had been utterly certain that nothing would ever justify his bringing John back to him, that it wasn't worth it no matter what. To hear that John considered it worth it for any reason...Well, it was a surprise.

John swallowed. Maybe he should explain a little better. John...He would rather be dead, yes. It would be so much easier than going through all of this pain., all of this strange lifelessness that came with no longer being human, estranging him from most everyone he cared about, unnaturally prolonging his life, and more, the drinking blood and the feeling like he didn't belong in his own skin, nagging at him every moment. It was bad. But yes, it was worth it. "Yes. It's worth it to me, because of you." He swallowed, closing his eyes because he didn't want Sherlock to meet his gaze. "When you stopped me from killing myself, I could feel you. I could feel what it would be like for you if I was dead. To keep you from feeing like that...Even living as a vampire is worth it.

Sherlock shifted until he could lift his right hand to cup John's face in it, not saying anything for the moment, just letting the simple touch communicate for him. He was sorry he had caused all of this for John, and he was sorry for John's misery, but still, he did not truly regret his decision, and it relieved him of a bit of stress and guilt over it to hear John say that it was worth it, that Sherlock had made it worth it. He swallowed and withdrew his hand, placing it around John's waist again. He dropped his head back down to John's chest. "You should sleep," He said after a stretch of silence. "You must still be aching." Sherlock ran his hand up and down John's spine, almost in a petting motion. Rest would be the best thing right now. "I'm not going anywhere, as long as you want me here."

John nodded. He was still aching, every bit of him, and he knew that sleeping would help. He thought this might be the last decent rest he would get in a while. After all, ever since Afghanistan he'd been unable to sleep through the night except in Sherlock's arms. "I want you here." He said softly, taking a deep breath and trying to relax enough to fall into dreams. It took John a while, and Sherlock could feel him, still awake, still breathing too unevenly to be asleep, still aware and mind still humming with emotions and thoughts. "Good night, Sherlock." He could also feel it when nearly a half an hour later, John drifted off.

Sherlock held him close in his arms the entire time, all while he was trying to fall asleep, and never once loosened his hold. If he helped John sleep, he would lay here all night if he must. His hand never stopped stroking soothingly up and down John's back, and he kept his face pressed close and his own breathing as even and peaceful as possible. Eventually he felt John go completely lax with slumber, but Sherlock still did not draw away. He took up the humming-purr again, and just lay there with John in his arms. For once his brain did not kick in to high gear with inactivity, and he did not feel the need to shoot a wall to alleviate his boredom. He just lay in the stillness and the silence, and he enjoyed it.


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry.

And John slept. Well. He didn't dream. He just drifted in darkness, not realizing he wasn't really in existence until he was awake again. There was no alarm, no chirping birds, nothing that woke him up. The cadence of Sherlock's soft breath just faded into his awareness. It was calm, and good. He tried to open his eyes, and then squinted them closed. It was bright. "Good morning." He hummed, his brain still in the habit of taking a few moments to remember that he wasn't human. Right now, in these seconds, he was just John, in his boyfriend's arms, held close and cherished while he got some sleep for once, thanks very much.

Sherlock shifted, eyes still closed, still in a light doze from an hour and a half ago. He had spent most of the night simply holding John, but near the end he had drifted off as well. He had had more sleep since he had met John than he had probably gotten for ages before he'd met him. Oddly he didn't mind. Sherlock mumbled something that might possibly have been "Good morning", eyes still shut, arms tightening up around John again from where they had gone ever so slightly lax while he slept. For the time being he had no thoughts of separation or sadness or loss on his mind. He was completely and utterly content at the moment.

John could feel it, and he let out another one of those vampire purrs. The inhuman noise reminded him then. This was the last time. John's arms around Sherlock tightened compulsively. He didn't want this to be the end. He loved Sherlock, all of him, completely. But he was also a vampire, and all of that terribleness came rushing back as well. John's breathing sped up and he tensed and it was all he could do not to whimper. This was the end. John swallowed and forced himself to breathe steadily, forced himself to calm down until he was fully composed.

Sherlock woke up rather quickly after he felt John tense up around him, and he blinked only once before his gaze cleared and he could pull back to intently catch John's gaze. A shiver of dread crept down his spine for no reason he could discern, and so he chalked it up to being from John's end of the bond. He made a questioning, distressed sound that was definitely not human in origin, but then his confusion faded from his face, to be replaced with a locked down, blank expression. "Is this it?" He questioned softly, voice not much higher than a whisper.

John chewed on his lower lip. He didn't want this to be it, but he had to go. He just couldn't stay. "Yeah. I think it is." He said softly. He didn't make any move to get up. He didn't want to. But he knew that any minute now, he'd be up, getting a shower to hopefully iron out his sore muscles, and then he'd be seeing if he could bare to drink that awful stuff. John had a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach that it would taste wonderful. He swallowed. Sherlock was here, safe and wonderful, And John closed his eyes. Just five more minutes. Please, just five more in this heaven, where he was meant to be, then far away and suffering and upset and alone.

Sherlock closed his own as well, clenching his jaw. He didn't want this any more than John. He wanted to press John in to the bed and pin him there with his own body so that he couldn't leave. He could do it, a little voice whispered. John was a vampire now, but he was much younger than Sherlock. The voice reminded him of how easily he had taken down Mycroft's men and Anthea. He shoved the thought away with little trouble; he hadn't been tempted in the least, but thoughts like that were always going through his head. He always ignored them, but he also always wondered what kind of person he would be if he didn't. Moriarty, he thought, and then hissed in disgust. Sherlock sighed and drew away from John, letting his arms retract from their position around him, but he slid up the bed enough to press his forehead to John's own in mirror of what he'd done just hours ago. He didn't want this, but he had to let it happen.

John grasped Sherlock's shoulders before he could move any farther away from him. "Sherlock, no." He said, in a quick moment of complete panic. He couldn't let Sherlock leave him just yet, he wouldn't be able to bare it. "Sherlock, please, just a little longer, please." John wasn't prepared yet. Might not ever be fully prepared, but he couldn't just be left alone now. He'd break. He needed to get ready to be on his own. He needed to be ready to find a way to manage without Sherlock. "Just a few more minutes." His voice, too, was hardly more than a whisper.

Sherlock swallowed, "I'm not going, I promise, I'm not." He wanted to say so much more, but everything that needed saying had been mentioned last night. Really, John knew that he loved him, what else would Sherlock possibly need to say in this moment? So instead of speaking, he lifted his head and pressed a kiss to John's own, right above his brow, the gesture tender and loving and exactly as it used to be, exactly as he had done before this had all happened. He hoped John understood what he meant with that. He didn't do it last night when he'd had the chance, and if this was the end, he wasn't going to look back later and regret not doing anything.

John took a deep breath, and then found himself relaxing again. Sherlock's kiss to his temple helped a great deal. "Thank you." John said softly. John wished things were as they had been, back when Sherlock would kiss John this way, more out of convenience of not having to bend over that extra inch or so than anything else. He wished things were still as simple as they had been. And he thought he'd had it bad _then_. John took his deep breath, and, alright, the five minutes he'd prayed for turned into twelve, but finally, John took a deep, fortifying breath, and slowly untangled himself until he was sitting on the side of the bed, leaning over on his knees, pushing his hair back with his fingers. He wasn't touching Sherlock any longer. "Well. I'm just going to, er...get a shower in." It wasn't an invitation. John glanced back at Sherlock and pressed his lips together a bit in what wasn't quite a smile. Sherlock could see the regret in his eyes clear as day, but John was working on putting himself behind a wall so he could live with himself when this was all over.

Sherlock inhaled deeply when John began to move away, almost as if he were drawing in one final breath to remember John's scent. When he exhaled it was slightly shaky, and he could only imagine how broken his face seemed. But luckily he had it back under control by the time John glanced behind him, eyes once more blank and face settled in to firm lines. Inside he was screaming, shouting at himself to grab John and not let him move, because after this it would be back to stepping gently around each other, and after that...After that, John would be gone, even if not yet physically, and with him Sherlock's heart. He wasn't foolish enough to think something melodramatic, like he would cease to exist without John here, or that he would be unable to function. He would still get up, still solve cases, still go from day to day as he always had. But something would be missing, something constantly nagging at the back of his mind, but existing didn't mean happy. Sherlock sat up and put his back to the headboard, watching John. Of course he wasn't expecting to share a shower with the other man. That would have been very counter-productive. But the threads of what might have been fluttered around in his mind, and his lips thinned out, whether to prevent a smile or a frown was impossible to tell. He nodded his head, a sharp, jerky motion, to show John he understood. He glanced away after that. Sherlock didn't want to watch John block himself off like Sherlock already had. It was just...wrong, to see John closed like that. He was like an open book with his emotions - easy to read, all it took was observation, the complexity and challenge was in deciphering what each expression meant. To see him as walled off as Sherlock would not just be odd, it would be painful, because Sherlock was the one who had caused it through his decision. He sighed softly, still looking away.

John swallowed, bit the bullet, and left the bedroom. Sherlock could hear the shower running a few minutes later. The shower John took was long and very, very hot. John hadn't enjoyed too many hot showers in Afghanistan, so now he took them hot enough to make his skin red. Today it was hot enough to scald, because he hoped that if he hurt on the outside, he might be distracted from the pain in his chest. He gave his hair and face a good scrub, washed up elsewhere, and then took a long while to just stand there, breathing, thinking of Sherlock and trying to clear his mind of Sherlock all at once, until the water ran cold. He pulled on a shirt, a jumper, and some jeans, and then he began to make his way out into the kitchen. It was the moment of truth. If he could stomach the blood now, he'd pack up and leave 221B.

Sherlock sat listening to the water with his eyes closed, not moving an inch from the bed. He inhaled deeply, the scent a tangle of himself and John, and this might be the last time he had a chance to smell it. Eventually he heard the water turn off and his eyes snapped open, darting to the door. He gave John enough time to towel off and pull on clothing, and then he stood from his spot. He made his way to the door, but stood in front of it for a long moment, listening to John walking in to the kitchen. He pulled in one final long breath and opened the door, stepping through and then gliding out in to the living room. He didn't enter the kitchen or even John's line of sight, but he was nearby, near enough that he would be able to hear either John's noise of disgust or of his swallows with his enhanced hearing. Inside he locked himself down. He felt nothing. For the moment. It couldn't last, as it never could. He'd tried. Sherlock inhaled again, keeping his breathing as even as possible and didn't dwell on the fact that he could no longer smell his scent mingled with John's own.

John took one of the bags out, and poured a little bit into a tumbler. He stared into the thick red depths for a moment, before sighing, and raising the glass in a self-deprecating toast to himself. "Well, bottoms up." He said, and downed it. It went down smooth, and tasted pretty good. He felt like he was being punched in the chest all the same. He licked his lips. He'd already fed from Sherlock yesterday, so he didn't need to drink more now. He sealed the bag back up and replaced it, and then turned round the corner to step into his room and pack. Sherlock was there, waiting, listening to him, and John frowned. "I can drink." He explained, simply, though he was sure Sherlock had already deduced as such.

Sherlock cleared his throat and loosened the jaw he had been clenching tight. "Yes. I realized." His voice was slightly hoarse, as if he had been screaming, but he hadn't spoken since John left the room. He lifted his gaze from where it had been locked on the floor. Opened his mouth once, twice, closed it. Glanced back at the floor. "Please take care of yourself, John. If you need anything- I...You know where to find me. I will be here." It almost felt like a promise, that he would not be leaving Baker Street, would not be disappearing for John to never find him if he needed him. I'll miss you, he thought towards the other man. I love you. Please don't leave me. Don't go. Stay safe. Live. Be happy. Sherlock's jaw clenched again.

John nodded. This was it. John knew once he had his things packed he would be unable to look back. Would be unable to stop or he would stay. He would lose his resolve and he just couldn't. It was almost laughable that it was even an issue. He might as well diagnose himself with Stockholm syndrome right now. John couldn't meet Sherlock's eyes either, but he nodded. "Yes, of course. I...I won't let myself starve, or anything." He'd come to Sherlock if he needed help, but only if he'd exhausted all possible other options first. He swallowed, and then, in a moment of neediness, he got up on his toes and pressed a kiss to Sherlock's cheek. "Alright. I'll be off, now." He said, and then was gone, down the hall, to get his things together.

Sherlock let his eyes fall closed and couldn't resist tilting his head in to the kiss. His muscles pulled taught against his urge to fling himself in to John's path, to grab him by the wrist and shove him against a wall and beg, to do whatever it took to convince John to stay here, stay with him. His right hand tremored and shook ever so slightly. Bitterly he thought how fitting it was that without adrenaline and danger, John's hand shook, but without John Sherlock's did. He was just as addicted to John as John was to adrenaline, so it made sense, he supposed. Sherlock didn't move from his spot once John left the room. He just stood, still as a statue, telling himself it would not be a good idea to follow John. He was tempted, though. So very tempted. And who wouldn't be? His mate, his love, his heart, was walking out the door, and he was standing by while it happened. A whimpering noise clawed its way from his throat, and he hoped that John's new hearing range wouldn't pick it up. That would make this all so much worse. He tried to rein the noise in, but it was instinct. He hurt, so he should vocalize that.

John heard it, and he couldn't kid himself that he didn't know what it meant. It was indeed instinctual. However small the noise was, Sherlock had made a sound of mourning. He was mourning John leaving his life, mourning the end of their relationship. John had no doubt that Sherlock would grieve just as heavily as if someone had died. John closed his eyes. He knew vampires didn't have telepathy, but if they did, Sherlock would be able to hear John screaming his love to him, reassuring him that even though he was gone his feelings would never change. That didn't matter. John packed up his bathroom things and he packed up his clothes. He packed up his laptop and winced when he realized that Sherlock would have to get up and use his own when he left it in the bedroom. Finally, he stepped into the kitchen.  He walked past Sherlock and didn't catch his eye as he did. "Do you mind if I take some of this?" He asked, opening the fridge and looking at the blood in there. It would be easier for Sherlock to find blood than it would be for him to do so. John wanted to turn around and scream at Sherlock, "I love you, I love you, you idiot! Make me stay, tie me up! I'll yell but I'll be glad, it will be better than not having you at all, please, Sherlock, be selfish, be you! Stop being so self-sacrificing! Punish me for ever wanting to leave in the first place." But he didn't. He just reached into the fridge, waiting for a response before he took anything.

Sherlock swallowed down some more of those ridiculous noises his body insisted on making, and cleared his throat before he answered, raising his voice only just enough for John to be able to hear him. "Take it all. If I am desperate I can go out and find some. That much would have lasted me a very long time before. I do not need much to survive, I will simply go back to my previous eating habits. You are new. You will need it. Take it.” He winced slightly as he realized he had just insinuated that, with John gone, he wouldn't be eating very often again, but he just forged ahead. It was true. He hadn't before John, and he wouldn't once he left. Sherlock desperately wished to be selfish, to go down the hall and drag John back to bed, to shove him down and growl and demand he stay. But for once in his long life, he was thinking about what was best for someone else before himself. This would be painful, but John wanted to leave, he couldn't stand being here with Sherlock, and so Sherlock would let him go.

John swallowed and nodded, and packed it tall. He didn't like the thought of Sherlock going back to not eating or sleeping or, well, doing anything to keep himself alive nearly enough, but he had to force himself not to be concerned with that right now. Sherlock was right after all, John did need it more than he did. It made sense. John shouldered one bag and grabbed his other, and then lifted his eyes to Sherlock's as he paused in the doorway. He thought he should say something. Anything that he could to ease this sting for either of them. He couldn't think of anything that would.

Sherlock unclenched his jaw and forced himself not to look down. On the outside he presented a strong front, unmoving and face blank, but inside he was mentally screaming verbal abuse at himself, at John, at Moriarty, at anything he could think of, really. He swallowed again. Nothing he could say would change this. Nothing he could say would alleviate the pain. But he opened his mouth anyway, because had to say something, and what came out was, "Live, John. Don't just exist." Even as he said it he knew it was hypocritical. He would only be existing. But he wanted, no, he needed John to have more than that, or else this had all been for nothing.

John swallowed himself and nodded. He knew that Sherlock did not feel anywhere near as solid as he looked, and he knew that he himself was the very same way. He would try, he really would. He knew exactly what Sherlock meant, and it would be hard. Nobody would blame him for just existing for a bit if he needed it, but he knew that Sherlock wanted him to be happy. John wasn't sure if he'd be able to manage that for a while, but he would try. John wanted the same thing for Sherlock. "You too." He said, serious. "I mean it. Don't go starving yourself, and don't lock yourself up away from everyone, okay?"

Sherlock nodded, unsurprised that John was throwing back his own plea to stay safe. He wasn't leaving because he didn't care about Sherlock anymore, after all. Sherlock nodded. "I will be fine, John. I'll continue on as I always have." He didn't mention that continuing as he always had would be horrible now, after he had seen what his life could have been. Everything before seemed dull and pointless, and suddenly the future gaping in front of him seemed daunting. He did not want to suffer through it, alone and in a constant state of mourning. And he would be mourning, John was right, his mind and body were reacting as if someone had died, not just as if someone were leaving. He would mourn forever, as melodramatic as that sounded. But it didn't mean he would die from it. He'd eat when he needed it, and he'd go out for cases for Lestrade. Eventually. Sherlock stepped forward, meaning to hug John one last time, but he remembered at the last second that they had indulged that all night, that the time was passed. He aborted his motion and instead lifted a hand, awkwardly offering a handshake for goodbye.

John didn't really like that concession- continuing on like Sherlock always had meant he'd be miserable and alone and not eat nearly enough...But he did keep busy, and he did carry on well enough. John finally nodded. It might have been the best he could expect from Sherlock. John saw Sherlock hesitate again, and he hated it because a Holmes should never be that unsure of himself, but he did understand why Sherlock did it. John thought that a hug might have been too much right now, but Sherlock clearly wanted something, anything more...John grasped that hand and pulled Sherlock close, the other arm coming around Sherlock's back in what wasn't quite a hug, but was still a soft embrace. He placed another small kiss on Sherlock's cheek and murmured to him, "Good luck." Sherlock was going to need it.

Sherlock buried his face in the side of John's neck, gripping the hand in his own tight enough to cut off circulation. He inhaled one last time before drawing away. He dropped John's hand and stepped backwards, folding both of his own hands behind his back, straightening up to his full height, as if he were bracing himself for a blow. "To you as well, John. Should you be in desperate need of help, well...You have my number." He replied, voice as composed as he could make it - which meant there was still a slightly shake to it at the end. He stood watching John, eyes never wavering, nearly never blinking. If this might be the last time he saw the other man, he was not going to waste it. I love you, he thought again. It was almost like a mantra, running in the back of his head, desperate to be let out. Sherlock kept his mouth shut.

John was the very same. The last seconds of closeness would have to be enough to tide him over, so he cherished them, trying to cement them in his mind- Though he knew he was quite a bit worse at it thank Sherlock was. John also had the very same mantra running through his head, and he just wanted to tell Sherlock. In fact, he wanted to tell everyone. But he'd said it enough. Now it would only be redundant, and painful too. John swallowed and nodded. “That I do." He said, giving Sherlock's hand a last squeeze even though they were already gripping each other tightly. He gave Sherlock a last not-smile, and then he broke apart, and wordlessly John Watson left 221B.

Sherlock stood still after John left, simply staring at the door with a closed off expression. He stayed like that for several minutes before he turned on his heel and made his way to the couch, dropping down to it without a word. He took to staring at the ceiling now, and blindly reached around until his hands hit a box of nicotine patches. He slapped two on, drew out his phone from a pocket, and began to work on all the inane little cases and problems he usually ignored that were sent to him via his website. He didn't want to think at the moment, and for Sherlock, crime solving did not count as thinking. His fingers flew over the keys and he didn't move for a long while. He was...bored. He was empty. And no amount of cases or shooting the wall was going to help him.

***

Sherlock swept in to the morgue, coat drawn tight around his body, clothes as immaculate as always. But his face was pale, as pale as it had been before he had met John and been eating and feeding regularly, and the expression on his face was past closed off and more like completely blank. As if there were no emotions for him to even hide. "Molly," He said in greeting to the woman bent over a cadaver. His voice, at least, was relatively normal - but that just meant it was impersonal. "I'm in need of a bag or two yet again." It had been a week since John left, and Sherlock was only just now beginning to feel too starved to function properly. When the hunger began to impede his ability to think instead of help it, it was clearly time to feed. He had been putting it off, not wanting to face someone who knew about John and his changed status, not wanting to talk about him leaving, but needs must. He shoved his hands in to the pockets of his coat and stepped towards her. He planned to get two bags and head back to the flat. Lestrade had nothing on at the moment, and he himself had nothing to do. The only reason he had left today was for this. He'd promised John he wouldn't starve himself. He'd probably be losing a bit of weight soon, but that wasn't from starvation. He was just reverting back to his previous eating habits.

Molly leaned up, and gave Sherlock a soft smile. She knew the entire situation. "Yes, of course. You should drink while you're here too, you look terrible." Surprisingly, Molly found that she had plenty to spare, despite not having any more than the normal number of cadavers available. Her smile stayed soft. She knew he probably didn't want to talk about it, but she thought that he had a right to know that John would be well fed, and Sherlock would continue to be. "John came to see me a few days ago." She said softly, brushing a bit of dust off of an elderly man's cold shoulder. "I set him up with a friend from another hospital. She's trustworthy. You don't have to worry about not having enough to go around."

Sherlock decided to completely ignore her comments on his appearance. He looked fine. Slightly more wan, perhaps, but she was clearly forgetting that the previous month had not been normal for him. This was as he always looked. Sherlock inhaled sharply at the rest, the noise carrying a hint of relief with it when he let it out. "Good, that's- That's good." He'd had no news of John, since they had ended their contact together, and Sherlock was only keeping the lightest of tabs on John. He only needed to know that he was not dead in a ditch somewhere or starving on the street. To know that Molly had him set up some place...It set his mind at ease, really. He had been worried, no matter how often he'd tried to shove that worry away. "I will feed when I get home, if you will give me two bags of it." He changed the subject quickly. It hurt to think of John, to wonder what he was doing, to not know how he was.

Molly frowned at him. "How about I give you three, Sherlock." She said in a no nonsense voice. She felt like she'd grown closer to Sherlock than she ever had been recently, and she thought she reserved the right to mother him just a little.  He clearly needed it. "John didn't talk much while he was here, but I promised him I'd make sure you kept a full stomach." She smiled softly, and got out the apparatus to draw Sherlock a few bags from the freshest corpses. She waited a moment for that comment to set in with Sherlock, and then she asked him softly, "How are you doing? I meant it when I said you looked like a mess."

Sherlock blinked, forcing down the smile that wanted to overtake his face when he heard that John had spoken to her about him. Of course he had. He was obviously worried Sherlock would wither away without someone to mother him, and it seemed John had passed the torch down to Molly. "I am fine, Molly. There is no need to worry. I'll take your three bags, and I will eat once I am home, and I will come back more regularly if it will set your minds at ease." And even if he didn't eat more, he would have a nice little stockpile for if he ever needed it. He leaned against the counter, watching the blood drain from the body in to a bag. Sherlock's stomach rumbled softly and he licked his lips. Perhaps he'd let himself get a tad too hungry. He'd grown rather used to feeding from John, and then from feeding a lot to sustain John. It would take some work to get used to this again, but he would make it happen. He needed a return to normalcy, to how things used to be.

Molly's smile widened. "Very clever, Sherlock, but I did ask you a question. Don't pretend that just because you say you’ll do as I ask that I believe it for a second. Or that I'll let you get off without telling me how things are." She hears his stomach rumble and she rolled her eyes, taking the first bag off of the tap and setting up the second. "Sherlock. You've holed yourself up in Baker Street for the past week. You're not alone, you know. You can talk to someone about it." She chewed her lower lip. "It's alright if it hurts. After all, I hurt too." Her smile became sad. "I feel responsible. Jim was...He was such a nice guy to me. He seemed like a good friend." And he'd been a great lay, but that was beside the point. "I wish I'd known the way he really was. I wish I'd known that he was evil. I wish He didn't use me to get to you. And I wish I could have stopped him." She'd just been a pawn.

Sherlock twitched slightly at the mention of Moriarty. His right hand curled in to a fist and his nails pricked the skin of his palm, but that was the only visible sign he gave at the sheer rage he felt, just hearing that man's name. He hated him with a passion Sherlock hadn't known he was capable of. Oh, but the things he would have done if he'd been able to get his hands on Jim Moriarty. He didn't say this out loud, though. Living with John had ever so slightly rubbed off on him, and he knew that would have been an inconsiderate thing to say, to tell Molly about how he would have liked to brutally torture her ex. "It is certainly not your fault." He gently scolded her, voice as warm as he could make it. Which meant it was only slightly warmer than ice. But he was trying, damn it. "He was the proverbial snake in Eden. Very tempting, I imagine. In the end he fooled us all, and John was the one to pay for it." Sherlock sighed, calming himself down. "Thank you for the offer, Molly, but I really am fine. As fine as can be expected, in any case. I am here, aren't I? I am functioning. I'm healthy."

Molly frowned softly. Sherlock's comfort on the subject of Jim was more than could be expected. It helped, to be reassured this way that she hadn't committed some horrible crime by being tricked by Jim. "It's just..." she said, getting this wistful smile on her face. “It was nice to feel loved. I don't date much, and...Well, I thought Jim wanted me." She blushed. "That doesn't usually happen to me."  She swallowed, and then she lost the soft expression to take on that mom face instead. “Don’t you think you should try for better than just "functioning"? She asked, exasperated.

Sherlock frowned slightly, blinking at her. He considered offering her some platitude, like she had just not found the right person yet, but everything in him cringed away from doing something such as that. It was just so completely inane. But he shook his head as she changed the topic back over to his existence. "I am behaving as I had before, Molly. What more can be asked of me? I do not understand what it is I should be doing. I am not at home, moping and sobbing in sorrow. I'm not particularly happy either, but can that be expected? The love of my life has left me, Molly, and it is impossible for me to attain happiness when it feels as if a part of me is missing." After he closed his mouth he instantly regretted his words. Too emotional. Too personal. He needed to leave, now, before he said anything else. Sherlock cleared his throat, trying to get back that completely blank feeling. It had numbed him from the pain of John leaving, and now that he had lost it, he was feeling it in force again, and right in front of another person! It was embarrassing and he did not like it one it.

Molly smiled softly at him. If she had seen him like this even just a month ago, if she could have heard him, she would have been shocked in to a coma. He was so completely different, while still being the same as always. John had been good for him, she knew, even if now he was in such pain. He was…He was human, really. And he was trying to deal with his grief just like any other human. “Just take care of yourself, okay, Sherlock? I worry about you, you know, even if you don’t need me too. And John wouldn’t want you to be unhealthy either.”

Sherlock swallowed down his virulent emotions, listening to her words. He knew just as well as she did that he had changed. Before, he would never have been this open in front of her, never would have allowed this weakness to show. But while it still sat wrong and made him feel vulnerable, he found he did not mind too much that she was seeing him like this. Molly wouldn’t pass judgment. After a moment of quiet he picked up the bags of blood and readjusted his coat. “I will do the best I can, Molly.” He stepped away and answered her half-smile with a rather painful looking attempt at one of his own. “And thank you. Again. I owe you quite a lot, Molly Hooper.”

She watched him leave, the smile not leaving her lips until she turned back to taking care of her cadavers. She thought he would be alright. Not normal, not happy, but maybe, just maybe, Sherlock would be alright. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aley: this is sherlock's version of break-up-depression  
> Aley: instead of gorging on ice cream and watching chick flicks  
> Aley: he sticks on some nicotine patches and goes on a crime solving binge and never leaves the flat except to go to Molly's morgue.  
> Taylor: ahaha  
> Taylor: When Lestrade wants things done he pays John to have a row with Sherlock  
> Aley: Haaa  
> Aley: Mycroft hits on John to piss off and Sherlock in to cases because he wants to show John he's better


	26. Chapter 26

For a while, John had lived with Harry. He had to explain something to her. She was really the only family he had. He showed her his fangs, promised her that he wasn't a murderer, and asked to kip on her couch for a bit while he got his world in order. Surprisingly, not being around Sherlock was like having a reset button. He felt like he could be productive, could find his way. It hurt like hell, and for the first few days he couldn't go a solid five minutes without thinking about Sherlock and feeling like he'd gotten punched in the solar plexus, but he could get things done. He contacted some of the vampires Sherlock had told him to get in contact with. John wasn't surprised to find that they didn't hold Sherlock in high regard, but they were somewhat helpful. They let him know all of the vampire safe places around town. John did as Sherlock had suggested, and took up training for the police force. A different part entirely than DI Lestrade and the rest were employed under, but John figured that he could stay in London, at least for the next twenty years or so. He couldn't imagine living anywhere else, but maybe he'd have to. There were enough English speaking urban centers for him to keep himself employed. His military history landed him a job, and as soon as training was over he'd be in business. It even paid fairly well. John talked to Molly, who set him up with a friend so he'd be able to eat well. After a few months of saving, he even rented a loft of his own. It was a commercial loft, with lots of space but not much in the way of accommodations. It had a bathroom, and that was about it. John figured the space could be put to good use, while he kept getting used to his vampire body. It took some time, but soon John had learned to walk and run as flawlessly as when he was with human, but with a bit more grace and _much_ more speed. Everything seemed to be going rather well.

Thoughts of Sherlock invaded his life all the time, no matter how long it had been since he left him. It got better, but only a tiny bit. Sherlock was his mate. A bond like that wasn't just going to evaporate. Because of the block, John never felt Sherlock's feelings even though he was far away. He was sure that Sherlock must feel his. Sometimes John just got so lonely, or so volatile or frustrated or any other number of things through the course of his life that Sherlock had to be able to feel them. Even without the emotions, though, John could feel Sherlock in his head. At night he'd just sit and feel it, caressing it softly in his mind even though he knew Sherlock couldn't feel any of it in return.

Every time he checked where Sherlock was, it was Baker Street or Scotland Yard. Even with John working there, they never ran into each other. It was colossally lonely without him. There weren't any body parts in his fridge, there were no live slugs living in his toothbrush holder, there was no violin at all hours of the night. And those were all, somehow, bad things. It hurt to think of Sherlock. It hurt to miss him as much as he did. “I still love you, after all of this.” He'd whisper into the dark, because even if he was telling no one, he had to say it.

Still, life was...Not good, but bearable, even without Sherlock. He was living, just like Sherlock had asked him to. It hurt, but it was possible. John didn't feel the need to try and kill himself again. After a while, he got into it. He was acceptably close to his co-workers at the Yard, and he had dinner with Mrs. Hudson every so often. They never talked about Sherlock, but John could feel him so close by, and it killed him to not be able to go up to the flat and see him. Nothing good would come of it. Because he couldn't ever come back.

Except...The whole reason he'd left was because he couldn't handle his new nature. Every moment of it had made him sick. Now…He drank when he needed to, refrigerated blood from his source. He used the extra room (and the exercise equipment he could eventually afford) to get comfortable in his body. He even glamoured a cashier once because he realized he hadn't brought enough change for his purchases.  Sherlock had even been right about John being able to find his keys in the dark, and sometimes the annoying background noises of life that had drove him up a wall when he was starting out were...Comforting. John found himself glad, even after the drawbacks, that he had survived. It was bad. Not as good as being human, and it still felt wrong...But he could handle it now. By the time John not only realized this, but felt comfortable doing something about it, it was three years later. It would have been just a blip in time for a vampire, if it hadn't hurt so badly.   

Three years passed for Sherlock in the normal tedious fashion, day after day of case upon case and dealing with idiots who could not find their heads if they were up their arses. Just as he had promised, he'd taken care of himself and began eating more regularly, because he knew that John would want him to, and he also had an inkling that Molly might possibly become violent with him if he didn’t. She’d really come a long way.  It had taken several weeks before he could behave normally, could leave the flat for extended periods of time without wanting to stab himself in the face or just drop to the ground and mope. He was usually not one for such emotions, but life without John was so drastically different than he had thought it would be that it would catch him by surprise sometimes, would blind side him, and he would need a moment to regain his equilibrium.

But Sherlock forced himself to live as much as he could, even if that was only going out for cases, and, even once, allowing Lestrade to drag him on what was a 'blind date'. He hadn't know that at the time, of course, but a little voice in the back of his head whispered that he should try to socialize more now that he had no one, and by the time he'd realized what was going on, they had been at the restaurant. He'd ducked away from the woman when she attempted to kiss him, and positively fled the scene, but it was the thought that counted, right? He had seen her lean in, and had panicked. The thought of it was just so instinctually wrong, he was revolted. The only person he ever wanted to kiss again was his mate.

And by the third year, Sherlock was still quietly miserable, but no one would ever be able to tell. All of his sadness was carefully tucked away, and if he had become more acerbic and his tongue seemed to be sharper than ever, well. No one said anything. From the outside he seemed to be carrying on in a decent manner, while inside he still felt a gaping loss, as if something he needed desperately was missing. And in a way it was. John Watson was imperative to Sherlock's happiness, and without him, he was not content. Sherlock felt as if he had fallen in to a rut, as if his life were simply a routine he completed. One morning he spent collapsed on his couch, staring at the ceiling and considered leaving London. He had promised John he would still be here if he was needed, but that had been three years ago. They had had no contact in that time. Surely, surely, if John had wanted to contact him, he would have done so by now. What if Sherlock left? His cellphone number would stay the same.

But London had become completely dull for him. The city he had once loved had lost its luster, and he needed a change. Sussex sounded lovely. Sherlock spent the entire morning toying with the idea of just quitting everything and going to keep bees for a decade or two. He was so old now, and though he knew of many vampires much older than he, for once he felt his considerable age. He was simply burnt out. Completely and utterly bored. After a long while considering it, Sherlock discarded the idea. Not yet, at least. It did not seem time for that. Perhaps in several more years. He had time to waste, after all.

Those were John Watson's thoughts exactly, when after the realization occurred that he could go see Sherlock again, he decided to wait. He wanted to psych himself up, to be prepared. Now, standing outside Baker Street, he felt like than entire month had been a waste of time.  He wasn't prepared to see Sherlock again. He probably never would be. But he knew that he wanted to. He knew exactly what he wanted. He didn't want to run back to Sherlock, curl up in Baker Street and let Sherlock take care of him. Somewhere inside him, John felt that urge, the way any child might, the way any creature might just want to be coddled and loved by its creator.  But John knew that wasn't the way he wanted this to go. He wanted to invite Sherlock into his life. Into this life he'd built for himself. It wasn't the best life, but it was his, more than his life as a human, even, which had been more Jim Moriarty's than his own.  It would take time, he knew, and patience, but he thought, maybe...They could somehow find a way to be together just the same. John chewed his lower lip while he screwed up his courage to go inside. John had changed, a bit, appearance-wise. He was still half and half, as far as fashion sense, but it seemed to have changed a bit. This was really Harry's doing more than anything. Really, John just liked the way he looked in tight jeans. He wore a dress shirt to match, but it was that ugly red color that he should never be caught wearing ever again.

John left the top button undone, to bare his neck. He knew he probably didn't need that much help, but it was worth a try. John's face was the same, still lightly haggard but overall adorable and trustworthy. Above those green eyes which hadn't changed a bit was something new, however. Just as John had thought, he'd grown his hair out. Perhaps it was a little melodramatic to change your hairstyle after you'd had your heart broken, but John didn't much care. He'd come to learn that he liked to run his hands through it, and that on hot summer days it protected his neck and face from the (hateful, really) sun. Then, for work and for special occasions, he put it back. Like now. Even pulled back into a tiny ponytail at the back of his head, tendrils of honey-brown hair fell around, framing his face.  John took a deep breath, closing his eyes for a moment. Sherlock was inside, he could feel him there. So what was John waiting for? He knew exactly what he wanted to say, at least to begin with. It would be okay. John went inside, stopping by to say hello to Mrs. Hudson first. He told her his plan, and she smiled warmly at him, leaning up and kissing his cheek. "You'll do some real good for him, I think." She said softly. John winced. Was Sherlock that badly in need of some good? John hadn't known if Sherlock was doing well one way or the other, but he supposed this was his answer. He gave her a hug and nodded his goodbye, and before he knew it, he was standing in front of 221B, knocking softly on the door.

Sherlock had been pacing around the flat since dawn, tossing about the skull that he had retrieved from Mrs. Hudson for the third time this week, three nicotine patches on his arm and a tightly drawn expression on his face. This case he was working on for Lestrade had been confusing, and he was having trouble working out the motives behind it. It wasn't for love or for passion, nor did it seem to be for greed, or revenge, or even just for the thrill that serial killers did it for. Not often did Sherlock come across a case he had issues solving from an emotional point, because even though he did not understand emotions very well, and even though he did not like to deal with them, he did know how they drove someone, because that was vital for his work. Sherlock sat the skull down on the mantle so that he could roll up the sleeves of his purple shirt and to flick open the top button. He needed to move, needed to think, needed to- Answer the door, it appeared. Sherlock snatched the skull back up and stalked over to it, brain still working over the details of the case, and he was so absorbed in that that you couldn't really blame him for not registering who that scent on the other side belonged to. Sherlock threw the door open with his usual customary blank face, which promptly broke in to an expression of pure surprise.

He dropped the skull to the ground, eyes widening. "John!" He said, voice a bit higher than normal with shock. Hadn't he just been considering leaving London, since it had been so long and John surely would have contacted him by now? But here he was, on Sherlock's doorstep, looking different but still the same as ever, still clearly and inherently John. Sherlock's heart pounded with wild glee and relief to see him so well, and he hastily tried to stamp down on it so that it didn't bleed over the bond he was always aware of at every moment of every day. Then his brain kicked back in, discarding the case like it were an old toy, and got to work. "What is wrong? Are you alright? Come in!" He backed up hastily, gesturing to the flat that hadn't much changed since John had left. It was a bit messier, and the couch had been replaced by a wider and more comfortable one (acid accident during an experiment), and John's chair had been shoved in to a corner (he’d needed the space when he’d taken on a case revolving around an acrobatic circus performer). But other than that, it was still the same, much like Sherlock himself. His hair was a tad longer and his face a bit paler than the last time John had seen him, and he'd also lost a bit of weight, making his lean stature even more obvious, but he still looked like Sherlock.

As ever, John couldn't help his instant emotional reaction to seeing Sherlock. His mouth stretched into a wide smile. That annoying 'I love you' mantra started in his head all over again as John was assaulted, first by the smell of him, and then by sight and sound. His mate. There, in front of him. Close enough to touch. John ached for him, and knew from the look on Sherlock's face that if he started snogging Sherlock just then that the other man would be a willing participant, but he wanted to do this right. John noted every change in him with just a little bit of worry. Sherlock was pale and underweight, and that blank face when he'd opened the door had been worrying, but John recognized that it was somewhat better than he'd looked when John met him in St. Bart’s that first day, so at least it was something. Sherlock looked just as much like a movie star as he had then, even ruffled like he was. John bent down to pick up the skull and offer him back to Sherlock as he stepped inside. "Nothing's wrong, and I'm fine." He said, still grinning. He could honestly say that, too. There were rare times when he felt like he was actually good, but nowadays he was usually fine. That, in itself, was good.

Sherlock's face broke in to the first real, true grin he had felt in ages that wasn't caused by a gruesome murder, and snatched the skull back from John's hands. Oh, but it was lovely to hear his voice. The bond in the back of his head perked up and took notice that it's mate was here, finally, after three long years of absence, and it urged Sherlock to reach out and just touch him, if only for a hug or a hand clasp. It was starved of physical and emotional affection, and it needed something, damn it. Sherlock ignored it. This was certainly not the time, and he had no way of knowing how a motion like that would be received. "Good," He said, and his voice was finally back to normal, his shock wearing off, and if normal for him lately had been slightly monotonous and sharp as glass, well, John could simply ignore it. It was hard to break habits formed in three years, even for a vampire. "Might I help you with something, then?" Part of him hoped, oh how it did, that this was a social call, that John had just wanted to see him, finally, but another part accepted that, if it weren't, if John were in need of something that Sherlock could help with, then of course he would happily help, if only to be near the other man for a time. It would hurt when he left again, but it wouldn't be as bad as that first time. Simply seeing him was enough. He was able to verify, for the first time, that his reports from the homeless network were accurate and John was healthy and whole. He was even smiling at Sherlock, actually smiling! He felt his own face stretch in to another grin, and for once he did not stop and scold himself for being too obviously emotional. There was no harm in this.

John was still a little bit in shock, even though he'd known all along he'd probably react this way to seeing Sherlock again. His eyes couldn't stop drawing over every bit of him, to confirm that he was real and whole, as well as just to enjoy the sight of him after missing him for so long. Then Sherlock was smiling at him, and he had even more of a reason to look, and even more of a reason to smile back. Like Sherlock, John felt the immediate urge to touch, but he knew he didn't want something too intimate after all of this time. He scolded himself for not taking the opportunity to shake hands with the man a few moments ago when it would have been acceptable. His cheeks colored a bit at Sherlock's question, and he became a little nervous. "I was just thinking that...Maybe you should come over and see my new flat." He met Sherlock's eyes. "When you're not busy, I mean." His eyes had already started to draw down him again, and they stopped significantly at the rolled up sleeve with far too many nicotine patches on it. "I can tell you're in the middle of something." His eyes glittered just a bit. Still the same old Sherlock, then, just as he'd hoped.

Sherlock's own eyes darted down to his arm, then back up to John's face. The coloring of his cheeks drove Sherlock slightly mad. It reminded him, rather forcibly, that he hadn't stopped to eat for the past two days, and that his mate was right in front of him, and that logically he should just ask to feed from John, since that was the duty of a mate - to keep their partner healthy and content. Sherlock shook his head ever so slightly to rid himself of his thoughts. That would be ridiculous. They may be bondmates, yes, but they were no longer in that sort of a relationship. They had not even had any kind of relationship for the past three years, friends or otherwise. It would have been wildly inappropriate for Sherlock to step forward and caress John's neck, and then bite in to it. But the image lingered and he knew he'd be grabbing for one of his surplus bags of blood once it was acceptable for him to do so. Feeding with John near would most likely result in some rather unfortunate biological reactions, even if he were not feeding _from_ John. Sherlock let John's offer distract him from such thoughts. He had a flat now, then? Sherlock began to examine him more thoroughly, to take in every bit of data he'd missed in his surprise. "Canary Wharf, yes?" He didn't explain how he knew. It was obvious to him, and that was all that mattered. "I would be happy to come. This bloody case is..." He frowned, face taking on a bit of that blank look again, from simple habit, "It is not going well. The motives are beyond me at the moment. I know who did it, and I know how, but I do not know why, and Lestrade needs that. Emotions and relationships are so messy, and unneeded." Sherlock had only meant that the woman responsible for this case had had a string of lovers, but it had turned out they all knew of each other, and he could not understand why she had killed one of them. Not to keep her secret, not of jealousy, he had seemed to be a fine man, and Sherlock simply could not understand why. But his eyes darted back up to John's own, only just realizing what he'd said and how it could be taken.

John felt a pang in his chest when Sherlock's words rang through his ears, but he swallowed. When he met Sherlock's eyes he knew that Sherlock hadn't meant it the way that John had interpreted it, and though his smile had faded a bit his eyes were still bright. "Well, I happen to disagree." He said, and then Sherlock must know that he was forgiven. "Maybe I could give you a hand?" He asked, not only offering his help, but also offering to spend some time together. He wasn't offering to be Sherlock's assistant again. He had his own job. That didn't mean he couldn't help Sherlock when he needed it, especially when he was so out of his depth. "And yes, Canary Wharf." Now his smile came back. Of course Sherlock knew. "It's a commercial flat, really, but I've made it homey. I was thinking we could have a drink sometime."

Sherlock tilted his head to the side, face as guarded as it had been when they had first met, that day in Bart's. He would like to have a hand with this case, especially as John would be able to give him a more human perspective on everything - and Sherlock had no doubt that three years had not taken all of John Watson's humanity - but the second part of that had sounded oddly as if he were asking Sherlock out on a date, and it completely threw him off. This really was not his area, and he did not know what was appropriate and what wasn't, what he should say and how he should react. He eyed John with a hint of wariness. Though he would like the help, he was unsure if it was the best of ideas for John to join him on this case. Extended periods of time in his company would push Sherlock's willpower to the limit, and he might do something unacceptable at the end of the case while he was high off of accomplishment. Finally he tipped his head back up and he answered, "That won't be necessary, but thank you for the offer. I'll figure it out in the end; I always do. But I would be glad to accompany you for a drink. Though I must warn you, I do not have the highest of tolerance levels for alcohol." It came from lack of experience, and he became very drunk, very fast. His vampiric nature was in blatant contrast with this, but there was simply no explaining it. Vampires, like humans, were all different. And until he was certain, Sherlock would be treating this in a strictly platonic manner. Friends went out for drinks, right? For once he regretted not interacting with others on a more regular base, as he would not be so out of his depth in this moment if he had.

It was intended to be a date. John wanted to catch up with Sherlock and enjoy his company and invite Sherlock back into his life. It wasn't just friendship he wanted, but he did think it was best to take it slow, to maybe do things the old fashioned way. John chuckled softly. "Well, I'm not trying to get you drunk, Sherlock." He couldn't help the affection in his voice as he said that. John could drink like the best of them, but it wasn't a surprise that Sherlock had a low tolerance. John knew that if he wanted to get Sherlock loose and willing to sleep with him, he probably wouldn't need alcohol to do it.  As far as the case, John was a little disappointed that he couldn't help, but he figured that it was a matter of pride for Sherlock. He did do them to prove he was clever, after all. "Well, if you ever want a second opinion..." He paused, glad that he could finally offer this. "You can call me. Alright? You could call me for anything, actually."

Sherlock smiled slightly. "Yes, of course, but I am simply informing you that if you would like to stay anywhere for an extended amount of time, not to take offense if I only had a single glass of wine." He would be fine with sitting with his one glass while John drank, but he had noticed some people felt awkward if the other person was not drinking as well. It was just a warning. He really would have liked to bring John along on the case, the company and an extra hand would be nice, but he knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that at the end of it he would have shoved John against something and tried to put his tongue down the other man's throat, regardless of where they were or who was in the room. Sherlock raised an eyebrow, composed on the outside while on the inside he was almost certain his happiness was shoving its way past the wall he'd built to block the bond. "Alright. I will certainly remember that. It's..." He paused, licking his lips and swallowing to try and give himself a moment to steady his voice. "It's good to see you, John. I have missed you." Sherlock was very, very proud of the fact that his voice did not waver or crack or show any of his incredibly strong emotions.

John could feel the happiness there. It was the first thing that he could remember feeling through the block since Sherlock had put it up. It made him feel warm inside, to know he'd made Sherlock that happy.  John's whole expression softened at Sherlock’s confession. "I missed you too." John said, his whole being radiating warmth to Sherlock.  It was so good to be together again, even if this was formal and a little bit awkward. Just being around Sherlock felt like the sun was shining on him again. Only in a good way, like when he was human. "That's the whole reason I'm here, actually." Gosh, Sherlock's eyes were gorgeous. Silver-blue. John had forgotten what they looked like. "I was hoping we could, you know... reconnect."

Sherlock smiled again, a soft thing that felt utterly foreign on his lips. It was nice to hear that John had missed him as well. Three years was not a terribly long stretch of time, even to humans, but many things could happen during it, that Sherlock hadn't been sure whether John would still...like him, he supposed, as juvenile as that felt to think. But some part of Sherlock had spent the last few years wondering if he had simply dreamed John up, if he had imagined this man here who had claimed to love him so fully. But here he was, standing back in Baker Street, and while he may be leaving again, it wasn't for good. John had given the okay by showing up here, and they could communicate again. Sherlock could see him now without it really being stalking, and the relief he felt from that was staggering. John still wanted to be around him, and even if he didn't love Sherlock any longer, that would be enough. Sherlock would never stop loving John, but he would take friendship if that was all John was offering. He had no way of knowing if John wanted more, he was always oblivious about these things, and so this was how he took the offer. "I'd like that. Rather a lot, actually." He'd like that so much that John felt another pulse of happiness over the bond, tinged with relief and just the barest hint of affection - Sherlock really was trying his best to block everything, but some things slipped out. He guarded his love the most of all, however, because it was the strongest emotion he was feeling at the moment.

John felt that happiness again. John almost wished that he could ask Sherlock to lower that block. He wanted to be able to feel him again, fully, the way the bond intended. But that probably wouldn't be wise just yet. "I rather hoped you might." John replied with that little bit of charming vulnerability. He hoped that this would all work out. He could live without Sherlock, but if he didn't have to, he certainly didn't want to. He didn't think that it would be difficult to make happen, but he also wouldn't make too many assumptions.  "So…When are you free? My work is pretty hectic, but I can get a day off if I ask for one." He didn't usually take his vacations. He worked on all of the holidays that other cops preferred to spend with their families. He knew nobody would be making a big fuss if he took a sick day.

Sherlock opened his mouth to reply, to say he was always free for this, but he quickly closed it and considered. Today was Wednesday, and if he could finish this case quickly he would have nothing else to take care of, nothing to worry about constantly in the back of his head, to be thinking about when the only thing he really wanted to think about was John. He was not optimistic, but Sherlock thought he could solve this tomorrow, once he found the woman and taken a look at the crime scene more thoroughly. "Would you be able to get off Friday, then? I will hopefully have this case done by then, and if not, Lestrade can just muddle along without me." He didn't ask where John was working. It was obviously the Yard, and Sherlock took a moment to be surprised that they hadn't run in to each other, what with how often Sherlock was there. Obviously he was in a section far from Lestrade and his crew, but still. The place was not that large. And for once he found that the prospect of abandoning a case was not so horrible. He would usually never give up until he had solved something, but in this case, time with John was much more worth it. Sherlock would hand off his evidence and deductions, and then happily leave it in the Yard's hands. Anderson might just drop dead from shock.

John nodded. "Yes. I can get Friday off." He smiled. This was going to be a reality. He was going to spend time with his beloved again. Not just seeing him now, but perhaps even, eventually, on a regular basis. That grin was back. He couldn't stop it, he couldn't help it. It took over his face like Visigoths conquering a small village. There was no doubt Sherlock could feel John's happiness as well. The bond was practically vibrating between the two of them at their close proximity. John thought that he should probably go before one of them snapped and they ended up snogging the other senseless. That would be rather against the point. "Well, it's a date then." He said with a little grin. "Can you come by around six? I can order some takeout for us."

Sherlock blinked. Oh. A date. Oh, John had really meant it that way. Sherlock broke in to a wide grin and he was all but bouncing on his heels. Not only was John here, willing to see him again, but he had actually just asked Sherlock on a date, and Sherlock had agreed before he'd even realized what he was agreeing too. He was even more ecstatic than he had been. It seemed a bit odd, that they were going on a date when they already knew each other rather intimately, but this was a new beginning. A rebirth, if one wanted to be dramatic. Sherlock was looking forward to it, with an excitement even the most interesting of crimes couldn't ignite within him anymore. "Certainly. I will need your address, however, John. I can deduce where you have been, but even I am not that good." As much as he'd like to keep John here, to continue talking, he was certain that they really might end up snogging soon. Sherlock's willpower was chipping away with each passing second. Friday would be easier, it wouldn't be such a surprise to see John, and he would have time to prepare himself. Now, though, all he could think about was latching his lips on to John's neck and shoving him to the couch. That was a bit not good.

John nodded. "Can I just text it to you? That would be easier." He said, taking out his phone and opening up a message to Sherlock's number. It was surprising, actually. John wasn't usually the kind to think of a text first, of using the technology he had around him when he could simply write something down. This John Watson was still very much the same as he had always been, but he was also updated. Jeans and cell phone and a new confidence, a new ability to change and adapt and go with the flow. He didn't seem as rigid. John really had found himself in the three years since they'd last seen each other, and his confidence was heartening.

It was also very attractive. "Yes," He replied just a second too late to be socially acceptable. When John had explained he was leaving to find himself again, Sherlock had hoped something like this would be the result, someone comfortable in his own new skin, someone who could handle his nature, who could live. But this new John was still the same, still him, while also being different. The clothing was nice, as was his ability to actually use technology, but it was that confidence that Sherlock was drawn towards, the ease John presented in his body. Sherlock found himself licking his lips again, and stopped mid motion. John really needed to leave. The proximity to each other made keeping the wall in tact harder. It had been there for so long now that Sherlock hadn't even had to consciously keep it going. With his mate standing right in front of him, it was harder, and some of his attraction slipped past. He winced a bit when he realized John must be able to feel it. Trying to appear unaffected, Sherlock whirled around to pick up his cellphone from where it sat on the mantle, putting his back to John. He cleared his throat, opening up the message with John's address. He knew the area. He would easily be able to find the flat. "Right. Well. I suppose I shall see you Friday then, yes?" He finally turned back around after being sure his face was no longer red with a light flush. Sherlock really needed his brain to stop feeding him questionable images right now, please and thank you.

John's eyes widened a little bit when he felt that bit of arousal. It wasn't that it was strange, or unwelcome. He just wasn't expecting it, which was rather dumb because he was dressed the way he was for a reason. While Sherlock had his back turned, John allowed himself to give a little smirk. Some things didn't change. Sherlock just didn't have to be cute about it. John had stopped his humorous smirk when Sherlock turned back to him, but he was still smiling. Sherlock was still sexy too. That shirt certainly didn't hurt things, and neither did his bare forearms or the way his hair was just slightly longer, more boyish. John wondered if he looked the same, a few years younger than he actually was. He supposed that in Sherlock's case, it was many years younger....But he also supposed Sherlock was used to it. No matter how many centuries old he was, he still acted like a child sometimes. "Yes, Friday." He said, and took the few steps towards the door that were acceptable. He'd be looking forward to it.

Sherlock clenched his hands by his side against the urge to reach out and stop John from leaving. It was a bad idea. But he didn't want him to leave. But he really did need him to. Sherlock was a very confused man at the moment, but surely he could not be blamed for it. The love of his life had just walked in to flat and invited him out on a date. Who would be able to think clearly after that? Sherlock cleared his throat. "Yes. I look forward to seeing you then, John. Goodbye." He stepped backwards, towards the couch, to further distance himself from the urge to grab John and trap him here. It was only two days, but he'd rather they just continue talking now. The useful, still fully functioning part of his brain was ranting about cases and unprofessionalism, and he listened to it, but he didn't like it. He would definitely have to finish this case as quickly as possible now.

John turned back to him as he reached the doorframe and gave him a smile. "Me too, Sherlock. Good luck on your case." And then, after another long moment of hesitation, he was gone. He turned the corner down the first landing, and then once he'd gotten an acceptable amount down them, couldn't contain himself from tossing his hands in the air and jumping down the rest. He did a little victory dance, and then continued on his way, grinning like an idiot, pretending that he hadn't just acted like a loon outside Baker Street. Well, now he had to go shell out for some nice wine. He wished he knew if Sherlock preferred red or white!

Sherlock himself whirled away and jumped, fisting his hands and throwing them up by his head, letting out a quiet little whoop. Once he landed he clapped his hands together and did a little spin, grinning all the while. "Oh, it's Christmas!" He crowed, feeling rather like a lunatic but not caring in the least. Sod propriety, he could act without dignity if he wanted to. No one was watching. He paced around a bit, needing to move, but unsure of what he could do. After a moment's hesitation, he grabbed his coat and went barreling down the stairs. He would get the data he needed for the case now, and complete it early tomorrow, so that he could spend the rest of the day agonizing over silly little things like what to wear, if he should bring anything (perhaps wine?), maybe he'd need a haircut, things such as that. He'd feel even sillier for them Friday, but, oddly, or perhaps not so, he didn't mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, uh...We kind of Reichenbach'd them? LOLWHOOPS. To be fair, I wasn't expecting it either. Taylor dropped that bomb on me with no warning.


	27. Chapter 27

Unfortunately for poor John, his boss didn't take to the idea of him taking a sick day on such short notice very well. He allowed John to come in for half a day on Friday, and piled him high with the most tiring jobs possible. By the time John did get home, did get cleaned up, did get the right wine and did make sure he had the phone number for the Chinese place, he was exhausted. He still had four hours before Sherlock was due, though. A catnap couldn't hurt, could it? John shucked off his clothes, leaving them hanging over the sofa, and proceeded to make the shift he’d learned about several months after he’d left Baker Street. It took only a moment for his body to alter itself, and then he lay curled up on the radiator, his head on his paws and his tail wrapped around himself, basking in the warmth. But John didn't wake up after that, even when, eventually, Sherlock buzzed the doorbell. The door was unlocked, of course, but John wasn't awake to answer it. He was a ginger cat, asleep on his radiator.

Sherlock blinked when there was no answer to the buzzer, shifting his grip on the wine he'd agonized over buying or not buying. He flicked the sleeve of his coat up so that he could check his watch. He was only several minutes early, and he had been standing for two after hitting the bell. He knocked, waited another moment, and, frowning, tried the door. It swung open. Sherlock stepped slowly inside, glancing about. "John?" He called, and listened intently. The house was quiet. No shower running, or movement in any of the rooms. He stepped more fully in. "Hello?" He called out again, louder this time, loud enough to wake anyone with their level of hearing if they happened to be asleep.

It was a testament to just how exhausted John had been that he was still asleep. The animal forms were not meant for fun- They were a safety measure. A small, more simple animal could heal itself better, as well as escape easier, and be less easily noticed. John was honestly using it for its purpose; he was recuperating.  The sound of Sherlock's voice did introduce a new sound in the flat, however- John began to softly purr, his head lolling from one paw onto the other. As for the apartment itself, it was huge. John didn't have a bedroom. Rather, on the far side of the room was a four poster bed with curtains drawn around it and a hamper and a changing screen nearby. He also didn't have a kitchen. The stove he'd bought was electric, as was his refrigerator. It wasn't pretty, but he'd gotten a basin and a hose and hooked up a connection to the bathroom sink for washing and cooking. It worked surprisingly well.  Near the kitchen was his living area, a sofa and a nice chair with a nice TV. There was a desk there, with his laptop sitting on it, and a small bookshelf with old medical journals sitting on its shelves. The rest of the large space seemed to be filled with exercise equipment. There was a treadmill and a set of weights and a punching bag suspended from the rafters. All in all, it was a rather good living space, if an unconventional one. And save for the cat, it was empty.

Sherlock glanced over towards the radiator as his ears picked up the odd purring sound. He lifted an eyebrow in surprise and walked over to the sleeping animal. Sherlock kneeled slightly to place the bottle of expensive red wine on the floor, and stroked a hand along the cat's back. "Well, hello there." He said softly to it. "I would not have expected John to get a pet." There was something about this cat, however. It seemed familiar. But Sherlock was certain he had never seen the creature before. Sherlock used a finger to scratch at the cat's neck. It wasn't collared, but it seemed well groomed and fed. As Sherlock took his next breath, his hand petting the animal froze. The scent had shifted, changed, was no longer exactly human nor vampire, but the cat had smelled suspiciously like John. That made sense, in a way, as it was obviously living here, but that should have only meant John's scent lingered on the animal's fur. This was as if the cat...was...John. Oh, bloody hell. Sherlock stood up hastily, staring down at what he was now certain was his bondmate. He'd always thought John was adorable in his own way, but this was just ridiculous. "Oh, no, really? John. You can't just use this ability to take naps on radiators, no matter how warm!" He scolded out loud, unaware that this really was for recuperation in a way.

John began to purr louder as Sherlock pet him. Oh, that was glorious, just perfect, that large, warm hand, and oh, yes, right there, that part of his neck that he could never get in this form, ohhh, Sherlock was outdoing himself- Because John did know, even then, with his eyes closed, and even asleep, that this was Sherlock. Before that knowledge could really register, Sherlock's loud voice woke him. He perked up from that luxurious slumber, ears and tail standing vertical.  Huge green eyes blinked up at Sherlock, and he jumped away from the man. Clothes, yes, clothes would be nice- But his carefully chosen and agonized over clothing were lying over the back of the couch. He couldn't exactly pick them up as a cat. Oh, how embarrassing! He scampered into the bathroom, and emerged a moment later with a dressing gown clutched around himself. He wasn't self-conscious about being naked around Sherlock- Hell, he was more fit than he'd ever been. But that wasn't the point. "Sorry, sorry, lost track of time, didn't mean to sleep that long-" He had no idea that what he'd been doing was in any way wrong, except that it was really bad hosting skills. He grabbed up his clothes and stepped behind the screen, trying to get buttoned up as quickly as possible so he could properly greet and accommodate Sherlock. He tried not to think of Sherlock's hand running down his back, because that was just distracting.

Sherlock ran a hand down his face, groaning softly. Whoever had been teaching John about vampire culture was obviously doing a very bad job at it. "John, it's not that I mind you sleeping. It is...that is..." He sighed, turning his back to the privacy screen, picking up the bottle of wine again. "Changing like that for superficial reasons, it is a taboo." Sherlock found he was embarrassed on John's behalf. And to think, he had walked in on him like that. To Sherlock's kind, it was more embarrassing than walking in on someone while they were busy having sex. Sherlock felt his face flush with his second hand embarrassment. "I should not have seen that," He mumbled to himself under his breath. Really, he shouldn't. Those forms were used mainly when a vampire was at its most vulnerable, when they needed to heal drastically and much faster than normal, and seeing John like that, he had instinctually expected something to be wrong. For him to just be using it to take a nap...Sherlock cleared his throat and began to explain. While he spoke, he forcibly did not think about how John was naked just behind him. Naked and now fully in control of his new body. Naked and sleep warmed. Naked and right. behind. Sherlock. Oh, dear. Don't think about it, he mentally scolded himself.

John pouted behind the screen. "I can see what you mean, but...It's rather silly not to be comfortable in my own home, isn't it?" It hadn't taken him long for him to figure out how to change into a cat. He'd been doing it for nearly three years with no negative result. He _liked_ being a cat.  John stepped out from behind it, finally doing up the last of his buttons. He took a glance in the mirror, and thought it was probably alright for him to stay barefoot. Today he was wearing blue, and it was much more flattering than that terrible red. John swallowed, uncomfortable with the whole topic, but refusing to feel guilty about it. He decided that perhaps he should explain his rationale to Sherlock. After all, in the beginning, he didn't like being that way much at all. It was strange being a quadruped. But once he'd found out the perks, he'd gotten more and more used to it. "Anyway, it's not superficial." He argued. "It's the only way I can manage to get any sleep." His last hopes of sleeping as a humanoid were left behind when he'd vacated Baker Street.

Sherlock turned around once he heard John's voice emerge from behind the screen, and promptly wished he hadn't. That blue color was much more flattering than the red had been, it complimented his eyes and his complexion, and he looked rather handsome. It blind-sided Sherlock for a moment. He'd almost forgotten, in the past three years, how much he had appreciated not only John's personality but also his physical form. And John looked better than ever. Sherlock absently licked his lips, then registered that John was talking and jerked his eyes back up to John's own. He tried to rapidly cool down his thoughts. Bad, he chided. Sherlock took a moment to process John's words before he responded. "You've had trouble sleeping?" Instantly concerned. He hoped that John's nightmares hadn't returned too strong. It hurt to think that John had been living here, unable to get a decent night’s sleep for three years. He must have been living with sleeping habits like Sherlock's own before he figured out how to shift in to an animal. Sherlock found that he didn't hold it against John too much, now. It was serving its intended purpose. It was helping John live. But it still made him uneasy, to have witnessed it.

John caught him licking his lips, and he couldn't help the heat that came onto his cheeks. It was good to know that Sherlock still considered him attractive. There was really no reason why he shouldn't, even if he preferred John the way his body had been before he'd taken to training himself, that sort of thing wasn't very noticeable when he had his clothes on. He'd found that his new muscles took quite a bit longer to train, and that they also showed much less. If he'd had a fitness regime like this as a human, he'd be huge. Clearly, that wasn't the case now. John shrugged. "Always have. Could hardly sleep before I met you, either." He actually smiled though. "I sleep perfectly as a cat, though. Better than I've ever slept in my life, radiator or no. Anyway, believe it or not, I _like_ being a cat, so vampire propriety can sod off. In the meantime, I'll keep my whiskers clean and out of their way."

Sherlock tore his eyes away from the other man, making a conscious effort not to eye him like a bag of fresh blood. Inappropriate. Inappropriate. Perhaps if he chanted it enough, he would remember. Sherlock couldn't understand John liking being in his animal form, as he simply hated his own. It was annoying and it felt odd and it had taken him positively ages to be able to move normally. Not to mention it wasn't very useful. No claws or large teeth or anything! "Well." He said, shifting his weight and his hold on the bottle of wine, uncomfortable. "If it helps you, then. Then I suppose it is serving its purpose." What a way to start a date. This didn't bode well for the rest of the evening.

John could feel the awkward situation already, and he thought he better do something about it. Sherlock was out of his depth, after all, this was a date. Looking for a new subject, his eyes found the bottle Sherlock had brought with him. "Ah, so I got it wrong." He said, taking a step forward. "I thought you might prefer white. Thank you for bringing it. Do you think I should put it on ice?"  John had never been good at accepting gifts, so he hoped that he was doing alright. "Or I could pour us some while we wait for take you. Do you still like spicy orange chicken the best?" He knew that much about Sherlock at least.  John gestured to the sitting room area. "Please- Make yourself at home."

Sherlock laughed softly as he handed the bottle over, shoulders losing the hunched posture they had started to take. "I do prefer white. I thought you might like red. I'd like a glass now, if you don't mind." He stepped back in to the sitting room, glancing around again in obvious curiosity. The weights were easily explained, and the tv was rather interesting. Clearly John had learned how to operate more than just his cellphone. Sherlock felt another twinge, something that made him think words like 'adorable' again. It was nice to know that John was doing well. The flat was simple, but John had been right in proclaiming it homey. Still. It wasn't Baker Street, and Sherlock felt it was not the place John really belonged, if that weren't too presumptuous of him to think.

John would have fervently disagreed. Baker Street had been wonderful, of course. It had its own wonderful, distinct character to it, and he admired it for that. Unfortunately, the person who seemed to think that he belonged in Baker Street the most was Jim Moriarty. John doubted he would move back in. Anyway, the parts of Baker Street that made it Baker Street were really Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson. Hopefully he would have both of them wonderfully in his life just as much as before. No, John's flat now was HIS. It was simple but completely effective. It was very masculine in design. It was open and private all at the same time. John loved it there. A place of his own making. It made him feel powerful and in control of things. "I do prefer red. Well, then. Do you mind if I keep this for another time? Then I can open the white I bought for us, and not have to open up two bottles." He got the appropriate glasses out, poured, and ordered them dinner before he followed Sherlock to his sitting area, passing him a glass by the stem. "It's good to see you! I really didn't mean to sleep in, I swear. My boss decided that I needed to be taught a lesson about asking for days off." He rolled his eyes. By the end of twenty years he would be the most beloved man in the entire building.

Sherlock accepted the glass and took a delicate sip. It was lovely. Not a brand he would have bought if he were buying for himself, or a vintage, but it was nice. He hadn't had any wine in an abundant amount in a long while. He had gone through a brief stage, decades ago, where he was a connoisseur of sorts. He'd stocked up enough wine to run a small business at one time. "It's quite alright, John. No need to worry about it. I understand." Sherlock sat down on the couch, holding the glass by cupping the curve and letting the stem rest between his ring and middle fingers. He crossed his legs and leaned back, presenting an image of perfect ease. He was only acting a bit. His nervousness had mostly faded.

John pulled his legs up under him, tucking his bare feet between his legs to keep them warm.  John seemed perfectly at ease as well. He had Sherlock nearby, and while that meant that he could cock this up spectacularly, he also felt more at home wherever Sherlock was, and calmer just having him nearby. Sherlock still felt like a safety net, no matter how long John had been away from him or how capable he had become. John sipped at his own wine a bit quicker than Sherlock. He could handle alcohol fine. It would take a couple glasses in a short amount of time to get him any kind of truly tipsy. Yeah, the white was pretty good, he thought, holding his own glass in his thumb and first two fingers, last two fingers curled around the stem. "Still, not very hospitable of me, is it?" He smiled. He wasn't truly upset, just a little embarrassed. "Anyway...We should probably talk, but...I have a feeling we should wait until after we've eaten, just in case. I want to have a nice dinner with you, at least, before I manage to bollocks anything up." He was serious, but he was also in good humor. He had a lot of hope for the evening.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. He had an inkling that 'we should talk' was something most people did not like hearing. He, as socially retarded as he could be, was simply curious. Sherlock could guess, of course, at what John wanted to talk about, and he would probably be right. He held his tongue and nodded. Sherlock leaned back further, stretching out and taking another sip of his wine. After half the glass he would probably begin feeling a slight buzz in his head. "I'm sure you will not bollocks anything up, John." Or, more accurately, he most likely could not. Anything John wanted at the moment, Sherlock would offer it. It was not that he was desperate, but it was a simple fact that he had missed John terribly and would give anything if it meant he could to spend more time around the man.

John gave an almost humorless laugh. "You've got some faith in me." He said, shaking his head. For the first time, John found himself really, sincerely worried about how he wanted to handle the entire situation. He hoped he wouldn't be disappointing Sherlock or putting a strain on whatever was between them by not wanting to instantly jump into bed together. There was a niggling in his mind from the bond (as well as from his own physical needs, which he'd been more or less neglecting) that it was exactly what he should do. At this very moment. Because he could see just a bit of Sherlock's neck between his hair and his collar. And regardless of the fact that they had food on the way. Still, he wanted this to go well, without hurting Sherlock further, without messing it up so that they were all alone again, without creating a relationship that he felt uncomfortable in. It would be a challenge.

Sherlock would not be disappointed. Not at all. He understood what John was trying to do, and he fully wanted it to happen as well. But he was in the similar position, in that his own needs and the bond were positively begging him to launch forward and pin John to the couch, to suck at his throat until he had John himself simply begging. But even more than the physical need, Sherlock craved the emotional. He had missed the other so much, and now that he was here, he would not endanger the possibility of a relationship by jumping John now. "I do," He answered, catching John's eye. His voice was completely series. He needed John to know that, even after they had not seen each other for years, he still trusted him. He still had faith. Sherlock thought he always would.

John met his eyes just as Sherlock had intended. He knew Sherlock believed in him, but hearing Sherlock flat out say it was...Well, heartening. "That's good to know." He replied, relaxing back into the couch further. He sipped at his wine again, enjoying the slight bitter taste of it. "So, still seems we have some catching up to do, huh? How have you been? Clearly you're still not eating enough- I'll have to talk to Molly about that one- But I didn't really expect differently." John was rather sure that Sherlock preferred to starve himself for his work, rather than out of some kind of depression. Sometimes, though, he just simply forgot, and that was what he needed someone around for. "You've eaten recently, though? I have some in the fridge. Violent death, relatively young. Best kind." John had mostly gotten over his revulsion, and had instead become a connoisseur. He refused to give his patronage to bampire- geared venues with shady sources, and he wouldn't drink live from a person, but he wasn't the least bit queasy anymore when he fed. He'd also come to learn that human blood mixed rather well with vodka and an olive. "Still taking up cases, obviously. Still hate your brother?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes good-naturedly. "I do not need all of this mother-henning, John, goodness. Every time I go in Molly is always telling me how I need to eat more, how it would help with my coloring. As if that bothers me." Sherlock took another swig of his wine, a deeper draw this time. He was beginning to feel a slight twinge of a buzz. After this one glass it would be best to stop. "I ate right before I came over. You can stop worrying." Again, Sherlock should find this care over his habits annoying, but he simply found them endearing. Even when Molly did it, he found he did not mind quite so much as he might have before. His short time with John, and then the three years following his departure, had changed Sherlock in small, subtle ways. To hear John talk so casually about blood was...odd. It was the sort of thing he would expect from others of his kind, but from John...It was simply odd. Welcome, of course, because it was just another example of how he had adjusted. But Sherlock blinked slightly before carrying on. "Of course, of course. The git tried to get me to come home for Christmas this year. I wormed my way out of it by solving a case, all hush hush. Luckily, Mummy still does not know I am in London. I would have had to try and assassinate him again if he had told her." Sherlock's tone of voice was completely serious, but there was a mischievous smirk to his lips that could have been from the prospect of killing his brother, or from joking. John may never know. "And you? Obviously you have been managing rather well. And you have a job with the police - I told you it would be a good career choice. But how are other things?" Sherlock wanted to ask if he was happy. If he was enjoying this life that Sherlock had bound him to, even just a little. Instead he asked superficial things. Sherlock still loved him, of course he did, but there was a bit of wariness thrown in to the mix now that he just could not help. Sherlock was guarded, more than he had been before. The past years had hardened him in some ways, just as they had made him softer in others, such as his treatment of Molly.

John smiled. "Then she's doing her job! That’s all I asked of her. Well, after setting me up, that is." He liked Stacey a lot. She was a bit too starry eyed, but Molly had been too. He treated her like a trusted friend who was doing him a favor, and slowly she was becoming just that. It was nice to know that someone would always have what he needed there for him, just in case. John's eyebrows rose as he spoke of his assassination attempt on Mycroft. It wasn't like he ever would have succeeded. John almost wished that he'd had contact with Mycroft. Now that he was one of their kind, maybe the man wouldn't try to kill him? When the questions were redirected at him, John's smile fell softening. "Work is good, yeah. Feels nice to be out, doing things, being active. I got myself into that unit that everyone hates where you have to bust up gangs and run after purse thieves. Not like what Lestrade does- when he shows up, they're already dead."  John chewed on his lip. "Life has been hard. Most of it, since I left, has been not good. But not all of it. And things seem to get a bit easier every single day." He smiled softly, not making eye contact with Sherlock. "Maybe someday life will be really, honestly good again, huh?" Maybe sometime soon.

Sherlock set his now empty glass down, crossing his arms over his chest, but not in a defensive posture. He was fully buzzed now, from that single glass, and his body felt loose and lax. He was all but melting in to the couch. "I hope so. That is all I wanted when I...When I did this to you." Now it was Sherlock's turn to look away and not make eye contact. He had come to terms with his self-loathing and guilt over this ages ago, and now it was a simple matter of fact, but it still felt awkward acknowledging it after all this time. "Is there, ah, anything I can do to help you along, then?" He offered after a moment's hesitation. Sherlock was not offering to be a crutch, or to support John like he would have before, but an offer to simply help things along, like any friend might. Everything about this - the flat, the clothing, John's personality - it all said 'I am managing on my own' and Sherlock did not want to disparage that. He knew how important it was that John could take care of himself in this new life. But an offer is an offer, and it can be turned down if it is not wanted nor needed. He was beginning to feel awkward and uncomfortable again, much like when he first entered the flat, despite the wine he had drank. Sherlock reached for the bottle and poured himself another half a glass. No one ever said geniuses were smart enough not to self-medicate.

John watched him pour the glass, and he raised an eyebrow. Sherlock knew himself well enough to make his own decisions, regarding that. Anyway, John wouldn't blame him if he decided to get well and truly sloshed, in this situation. He could understand the appeal. "Well...I'm doing alright now. The hardest part is well over, I imagine." He smiled softly. "And thank you for the offer. I know I could have always come to you if I needed anything, but it's nice to hear after all of this time, too." Now that he was more in control of his life, and he felt he was capable of contacting Sherlock, maybe he would. Sherlock was more capable of improving his life than anyone, but he wouldn't be doing it through assisting John with his life. He'd be doing it by coming back into his life. Loneliness, and general social neglect were the things that hindered John now the most. He couldn't get close to any of the humans he liked, because not only was it risky for them to possibly find out about his nature, but if he got too attached they would eventually grow old and die. And there were no vampire he wanted to associate with, or that wanted to associate with him, except for Sherlock. And oh, it was good to sit there, beside someone he could be himself around, someone who actually wanted to spend time with him. John, slowly, broke into an inexplicable grin, not even realizing that he was staring straight at Sherlock.

Sherlock blinked in the middle of taking another sip of his wine, tilting his head to the side in slight confusion. He had an urge to wave his hand in front of John's face, to see if he even realized he was staring at Sherlock. It was slightly unnerving. Goodness, was this how everyone else felt when he got lost in his own thoughts and stared at them? It wouldn't make him stop it, but it was certainly something to think about. He cleared his throat and shifted in his seat, gripping the wine glass. "Well. It's nice to know you are doing fine." And it really was. No matter how much Sherlock had missed John, no matter how often he'd had the thought to go off and find him, he'd always known that this was inevitable and needed to happen. Here now was proof that it had been for the better, and Sherlock could not be happier that John had adjusted so well. Some newly changed did in fact try to kill themselves, much like John, or they learned that they did not have the ability to carry on, and died out soon, either from starvation or sun poisoning. But John had continued on. Sherlock found he was close to grinning himself.

It took a long moment before John realized that he was staring, and he started a bit, face taking on an attractive pink blush. He didn't know the kind of effect that blue shirt had when combined with flushed skin, but it really was endearing when he pulled his eyes away from Sherlock, embarrassed. "I am. I really am. That's the whole reason why I wanted to see you again." He chuckled softly. "I think that...Now that I can stand on my own, maybe I can stand by your side." He looked back up at Sherlock again, his whole face open and smiling. He opened his mouth to say more but he was interrupted by the doorbell. He just grinned wider and went to fetch their meal.

Sherlock took the brief moment while John went to the door to drop his face in to his hands, emitting a soundless groan. That blush had tried his willpower. The reddened skin with the lovely blue fabric contrasted so beautifully, and Sherlock had had to forcefully clench his jaw to keep his fangs from sliding out. This was ridiculous. He was no longer a hormonal child, that pretty flush of skin should not be affecting him so much. Obviously his years of celibacy were catching up on him in a rush. Sherlock shook his head to clear it and sat up just before John turned back around with the food, face composed again, no sign of his rather sudden and intense arousal. John was going to be the death of him, he thought, then fought off a smile as he remembered that that certainly hadn't been the first time he'd thought that. Sherlock swallowed and stood to take his meal from John, then finally processed what John had said. The wine was dulling and slowing his brain, and his virulent emotions were making it even slower. "I- Yes. I'd like that." He smiled softly. "I must admit, my side has been rather lonely since you left, John."

"We can't have that now, can we?" He replied. John smiled as he retrieved plates and cutlery for them. He didn't expect Sherlock to eat much, but John knew that he liked the taste of extremely unhealthy Chinese food. Sherlock liked the taste of a lot of unhealthy things. John could see why. Things that were extra salty or sweet or sour or bitter were all he found appealing now. His new tongue was entirely bored with milder tastes. Whenever he went out for food with his co-workers, they were impressed by how spicy he liked things. He'd always preferred spicy foods to less spicy ones, but now it was drastic. As such, he now had a plate of extra-spicy General Tso's.  He settled back in next to Sherlock, refreshing his own wine glass. It felt nice. Domestic, even. John was reminded of the many domestic mornings he had spent with Sherlock, lay-ins in their bed, curled up together. He felt an ache in his chest. They didn't really have all that much sex when they were together, so there wasn't much of that to miss...He found he missed just curling up and being close the most. Though, come to think of it...He peered up at Sherlock from under his tawny eyelashes, and licked some sauce off of his lips.  If they were going to get together again, a good honest to god fuck was one of the first things on his to-do list. It really didn't even matter who was doing the fucking, either.

Sherlock daintily plucked a piece of chicken out of his box and popped it in to his mouth, humming in pleasure at the taste, oblivious to the look John was giving him and the thoughts he was having. Sherlock sucked the sauce first off of his thumb, then off of his pointer finger. He shifted to pick up the chopsticks, and his gaze caught on John's lips while he licked them clean. Rather abruptly he was reminded of all the things he would like to get that tongue to do. Sherlock, much like John, mostly missed the physical closeness and comfort that came from being wrapped happily and lazily around another person, of having a hand carefully carding through his hair. But he was also very desperate for anything even remotely resembling sex with this man. Sherlock shifted back, crossing his legs again, eyes darting away and face taking on a faint flush that dusted his white cheeks.

John watched Sherlock lick the sauce from his fingers, and had to consciously stop himself from making an aroused noise in response. Did Sherlock even know what he looked like when he did that? John hadn't expected this night to end in sex. He wasn't so sure he could even do anything about it at this point. He stopped at the absurdity of that thought. Of course he could. He laughed breathlessly as he watched Sherlock (cleverly) cross his legs, and he set his plate down. "This is ridiculous." He said, face redder than it had been even a moment ago. "Tell me I'm not the only one who's half hard, here."

Sherlock groaned, set down his own plate, and placed a hand over his brow to hide his eyes and tipped his head back. "Oh, god," He said. "I'm glad I am not the only one, but this is really quite ridiculous. We are not teenagers, for heaven’s sake." His own face was now vividly red, the flush creeping down what was visible of his stretched out neck. "I should leave," He muttered, removing his hand from his eyes and sitting up to look at John, face still red and expression faintly embarrassed. It really would be best if he stood up, thanked John for the dinner and the wine and the company, and turned around and went home for the night. He didn't move.

And that was good, because John would have been rather cross with him if he'd done that. "The hell you should." He said, fixing Sherlock with an unamused look. "I'm enjoying having you here! You're not allowed to run off on me even if you've got an erection." John decided that this discussion was really all of the excuse he needed to stare at Sherlock all he'd  like, which was fortunate, because he was looking utterly- Well, delicious, with all of his blood rushed close up under his flesh and his neck bared to John. He felt a shiver run through him. "If you aren't hungry we can pack things up, but you're right we're both adults. We can handle a little poorly timed arousal. I wanted to talk to you, remember? About...Well, this."

Sherlock waved a hand. "Talk, then." He would make no promises that he would understand everything or answer in a concise manner. His own arousal was being very distracting at the moment. He closed his eyes, hoping to lessen it without a constant stream of visual encouragement. They did need to talk, this was important, and he hadn't wanted to leave in the first place. He just thought it would be best. It would have certainly taken away the temptation to ravage John, regardless of whether they talked or not. Why had he thought he could control his attraction when he had not seen his mate in three years? The bond was shoving at him constantly, wanting to be solidified through the sharing of blood and sex. He hushed it as well as he could and listened to what John had to say.

If it was anyone else, John would have just suggested that they have a quick shag to release the tension, no emotional strings attached, because they could figure all of that later. Of course, with Sherlock he knew it could never be just an emotionless shag. He couldn't even think about Sherlock without his heart thumping in his chest, let alone touch him, let alone fuck him. It just couldn't be done. And he didn’t want to rush this with intimacy that was too sudden. Sherlock wanted him to talk. So he would talk. "I've built this life for myself. It's not perfect, but it's good enough, and everything is exactly the way I want it, except you aren't in it." He chewed on his lower lip for a moment. "I want you back with me, Sherlock."

Sherlock opened his eyes, heart feeling as if it were in a vice. He reached out, only slightly hesitant, to grasp John's hand in his own. He'd thought that level of contact would be safe, would be enough to feel connected but not too much, but his heart gave a particularly violent throb, and the bond sang in his head at the touch. His voice, when he spoke, was heavy and slightly deeper with his sincerity. "I want that as well, John. I've missed you, so very much, and I have never stopped thinking of you." I love you still, he added mentally. Because he did, and he would never stop, for as long as he lived, he knew. "I want to be with you in any way you will allow, John. The simple fact of the matter is that I just want you. In any way. In every way." Sherlock was showing his hand perhaps a bit, but he didn't care. He needed to say this, he needed John to hear it even if he might have already know. He gave John's had a tight squeeze and then released it, drawing back.

John wasn't expecting such a  sudden declaration from Sherlock. He'd thought Sherlock might try to keep his emotions out of it for as long as possible. Apparently Sherlock wanted to keep no secrets. John took the time to let the confessions roll over him and echo through him. He could feel his own end of the bond answering, and the hand in his own was warm and reaffirming. "I want you too, Sherlock. Again, in any way I can have you." He scooched a bit closer, so they didn't have to reach anymore. "But I don't want to give up the life I've built. I've worked hard on it. I don't want to let go of it. I want to fit you into it." He chewed on his lower lip. "I would do just about anything to get you back, Sherlock, but I can't give up everything I've gained." He had a life now. And a life without Sherlock was better, at least, then not having his life at all.

Sherlock had changed as well as John over the period of separation. Before, he most certainly would have tried to stay as far away, emotionally, as possible at this moment. But he was not exactly the same man as he had been. He had experienced love again, and loss, and he really had embraced the idea of carpe diem. Sherlock was momentarily distracted by John's teeth on his lips, but he focused. "I would not want you to do that, John. If my being here meant that, I would force myself to leave. I have, and always will, want what is best for you, my friend." The endearment felt odd on his lips, but anything else would have been too intimate at the moment.

John smiled. They would never stop being friends. They would also never stop being bondmates. The question was, if and when could they become lovers again? The sooner the better, but he didn't want to rush unnaturally into it. John smiled. "I suppose...We could date. Or just spend the night together when we have the chance. What would be best is if I could have the best of both worlds. If I could be myself, and I could be with you." He sighed softly, letting the tension ease out of him. He could make this work. They just had to figure it out. Together.

Sherlock laughed, a quick little sound that was surprisingly deep. "Someone my age, dating for the first time..." He trailed off with a chuckle, eyes crinkling with a smile. His whole face was warmed by it, softening the sharp lines his cheekbones always emphasized. They were really doing this. Sherlock was ecstatic, joyous, overwhelmed with happiness, and John could surely feel it over the bond. Sherlock wondered if he'd be able to lower it soon, if they could finalize it. He felt like jumping around again, or like pulling John up and spinning them around in an impulsive twirling dance. "We will make it work, then, so that you can have both." He put special emphasis on the 'we'. He would accept anything, so long as they were together.

John couldn't help the slight shininess to his eyes. Sherlock wanted this to work, at least as much as he did. Even after all of this, nothing had really changed. They still loved each other. John felt his chest tightening as he got short of breath. He gripped his hand tight. Tight enough to hurt, if they'd been two men of the human variety. Maybe they really could worth this out. He let out an exasperated noise, and shook his head, eyes locked on Sherlock's. "I love you so fucking much." He said, surprised he was even saying it. Not that it wasn't true. It had always been true. It might have been rather stereotypical, but he looked head over heels at that very moment. "Sherlock bloody Holmes." He shook his head again.

Sherlock's hand spasmed around John's own and he made a softly strangled noise. It had been so long, so very long since he'd heard that. His heart stuttered and then picked up in double time. Sherlock slid closer and rather abruptly dropped John's hand to wrap both arms around his shoulder, drawing him in to a tight hug. He couldn't resist it. It was better than his first instinct, which had been to drag John closer and kiss him bloody incoherent. Sherlock dropped his face to John's neck, drawing in a shaky breath, inhaling deeply the scent that was inherently John, the scent Sherlock had missed so very much. "And I love you, John Watson, so much that it is frightening."

And suddenly the arousal didn't matter anymore. Because Sherlock was there, in his arms, needing him. And Sherlock could have him. John would give himself to Sherlock. And now, unlike when he had given himself to Sherlock before, he felt like he had something worthwhile to give. He felt like he was something Sherlock should be proud to call his own. John drew his arms around Sherlock's shoulders, drawing him close. Once Sherlock was acceptably close to him, he put his hand on Sherlock's head and pushed his fingers through Sherlock's curls. They were longer than it had been before. He was surprised that he remembered a detail that small. Maybe Sherlock had rubbed off on him. It was wonderful. That was where his hand belonged. "You don't have to be afraid of it anymore, Sherlock. Your love is accepted, appreciated, reciprocated, and safe." It was true. John would protect Sherlock's feelings with everything he had, because the pain he knew that Sherlock had been experiencing- The pain that he himself was experiencing- He didn't want that for Sherlock ever again.

Sherlock exhaled a soft little noise that seemed to be a cross between a whimper and purr, nuzzling his nose against the side of John's neck, and for once the proximity to the major vein there did not arouse any hunger or lust within him. This closeness was not about arousal. He just simply could not stand another moment without this man in his arms, and it had nothing to do with sex or hunger. Sherlock lifted his head, his nose drawing a line up the side of John's neck, until he could press a soft, barely-there kiss to the hollow behind his ear. "That is not why I am afraid, John. I am afraid because of the intensity," He whispered softly, breath ghosting over the shell of John's ear. "I feel as if there were nothing I would not do for you, and that is what frightens me. For you, I would become a monster. More than I already am. For you, John, I would burn this city to the ground if it needed to happen." And he meant it, completely and utterly. Case in point was John himself, a vampire because of what Sherlock had done. There was a part of him that was broken, deep inside, that was violent and devious and would lie and cheat and steal and kill for this, for the chance to hold John. That was what truly frightened him about it.

John shook his head. "You don't have to be afraid of it anymore." He responded softly, fingers finding Sherlock's scalp and gently rubbing. Now that John knew what it was like to be a cat, he knew the best way to stroke an animal's fur from an animal's point of view. It was knowledge he was glad to have the opportunity to share. "First of all, you're not a monster. You never have been, as long as I've known you, and I sincerely doubt that you were before that. Even if you could become a monster or burn things down, you won't. I won't ever give you a reason to do those things on my behalf, because not am only am I capable now of taking care of myself, but I know what I want out of my life. Plus, you're mine now. I won't lead you astray, Sherlock."

Sherlock shivered, John's words combining with the hand stroking through his hair. "Gods, John, you cannot say things like that to me." Being told he was John's, that was not something that helped with his self-control. "Mine". It made him want to mark John for everyone else to see that he was taken, that he was Sherlock's, and he wanted John to mark him in the exact same way. They were already in one another’s arms, on a wide couch, and it would be so, so easy for Sherlock to push until he found himself on top of John, lips latched on to his throat as their hips aligned. He really, really needed to leave. He couldn't force himself to. John would need to be the one to end this, because there was simply no way in hell Sherlock was. His hands tightened the grip they had taken up on the back of John's shirt, his nails scraping in to the skin underneath of it lightly.

John just swallowed and breathed deep. He wondered if what he was considering was a good idea. Still, he wanted it, and badly. He'd missed it a lot, from those few short hours when he'd experienced it. "I'll say whatever I damn well please." He said softly, affectionately. "And yes. I am." He took a deep breath and the hand in Sherlock's hair began to scritch slightly, right at the base of his neck. "Most definitely." He had proof that he was Sherlock's, but he thought that it was probably not a good time to bring that up.  He was quiet for a moment, before he suggested what he'd been considering. "Sherlock...Will you, ah...Lower the block?" He swallowed. "I wanna feel you."

Sherlock shivered again, the hand at his neck was lovely. His eyelids dropped half lidded, and he nuzzled closer to John's body, soaking in the warmth John was radiating. For the moment that John was quiet, Sherlock felt as if he were slipping in to a daze of comfort and happiness. He was jerked out of it, however, by John's request. He blinked, drawing away so that he could look John in the eye. "You-?" He stopped. Sherlock always hated it when people asked questions that had obvious answers. "Yes," He breathed, closing his eyes and focusing. It was much easier to break the block down than it was to build it, but the thing had existed for three years now. Sherlock had to take a moment, but eventually the thing cracked, fractured, and suddenly John could feel everything Sherlock was - his joy and his slight arousal and, most importantly, all of his love. Sherlock dropped his head forward to John's chest, breathing labored as he tried to cope with John's own emotions.

John's emotions were different than they had been before. They were no less passionate than they had been, and no more hidden than they had ever been. They were, however, far less turbulent. Sherlock could feel it all, the determination and the protectiveness and so much sweet love, like warm nectar ready to drown Sherlock in its sticky depths. John wasn't quite as happy as Sherlock was. In fact, he was hardly happy at all. He was, however, extremely relieved. For Sherlock, having John back was a surprise, a sudden good, happy thing in a life of pain. For John, having Sherlock back was something he'd expected. Sherlock was a balm that was finally soothing the painful burn of John's loneliness. John's grip on Sherlock tightened a bit, and he let out a shaky breath. After he'd accommodated himself to it, he said, "I've been watching that wall like a hawk. I wanted to feel any of you that might spill over." He smiled softly, but he felt like his breath had been taken away. "It didn't happen very often."

Sherlock took a deep, slow breath to steady himself against everything. After a moment he noticed the difference in their levels of happiness. John felt a flash of fierce determination of his own. Sherlock would be changing that, most certainly. If he could not make John happier, then there was no point in him being here. Sherlock tightened his own hold as well. Despite how long it had been, this felt as natural as breathing. He fell back in to this so easily, and it just felt so right to be here, like this, with John. After a moment of silence Sherlock finally responded to John's comment. "No. You wouldn't have. That would have needed intense emotions, and I did not experience those very often. I kept a very tight hold on that wall. You might have felt anger, occasionally, and irritation. Sometimes excitement at cases. But that was it, really." His voice was quiet, soft, almost low enough that a human would not be able to hear it. For a while after John had left, Sherlock had temporarily lost interest in nearly everything. It had taken him a week and a half to accept a case from Lestrade. At the end of that, wherein he had taken much longer than needed to solve the murder, Mycroft had shown up at 221B and scolded Sherlock in his typical way - subtle threats and carefully measured condescension. As loathe as he was to admit it, it had irked Sherlock in to getting back to normal. He'd always known he would continue on, but that week had been the only indulgence he'd allowed. It was a break, a time to mourn. After, he'd went about his business as he had before. Sherlock had simply not been as lively or passionate after that.

John nodded. "Yeah, that was what it was, whenever it happened." He said, and now as he ruffled through Sherlock's hair backwards, his hand rubbing little circles into Sherlock's lower back. Sherlock shouldn't have been worried by the lack of joy at having Sherlock back. John could find happiness any time. What he couldn't find was someone at make him feel not-so alone. Until now. Sherlock had fixed it, fixed it all, and he didn't even know it. He let Sherlock enjoy this in silence for a bit, enjoy being as close as they were without any repercussions. Then, finally, he spoke. "I'd like to ask you to stay the night, but I have a feeling that might be a bad idea. I want to find a way to balance you and my life before we get too serious- but mark my words, we will, Sherlock, we will. And then..." He trailed off. He was sure Sherlock knew exactly what then.

Sherlock huffed out a breathy laugh. "Yes. That would most likely be a very bad idea. I am not sure about you, but I would never be able to keep my hands to myself, and I can easily admit that." Sherlock pulled away, untangling his arms from around John, but immediately picking up one of his hands again, lacing their fingers, warm palms pressed together. His thumb stroked up and down soothingly, a smile gracing his face. "I've waited three years just to see you, John, do you believe I will truly mind waiting slightly longer for this?" No guarantee that he would be able to keep his hands to himself the entire time, but he would always back off when he needed to. Case in point, his other hand was now lightly stroking along John's thigh. "Would you like me to leave now? You could get back to the nap I interrupted." And Sherlock could go home for a nice long wank, a shower, and then the best sleep he would have in ages.

The ex-army ex-doctor couldn't help a hiss as Sherlock's hand pressed into his thigh. He was still very tender there. John just took a deep breath and tried to play it cool. Sherlock could feel the anxiety that came with emotional pain, along with a pang of love and sexual interest. John gave a little chuckle. "I already told you I don't want you to leave, but that would probably be for the best, wouldn't it?" He sighed softly. "We need to be able to make more plans. Often. We could just text each other when we become free. It will have to line up once in a while. The sooner I can see you again, the better." Now that Sherlock was far enough away that John could see his face, John took a long look at him, at every bit of him, from his mussed hair to his hands clasped in John's. "Do you think we can manage a goodnight kiss without shagging each other silly?

Sherlock snatched his hand away from John's thigh as soon as he heard even the beginning of that hiss. He glanced down, wondering if there was a bruise there or something of the sort. Being a police officer must be much more physically demanding than being a doctor. Still, not as demanding as being in the army. "You know my schedule is not very regular. Text me whenever you are free, and we shall see if our times ever align." Sherlock stood, pulling John up with him by their clasped hand. "I believe we can manage it if you shove me out the door directly after." He was smiling slightly, but completely serious. Sherlock really would need to be forcefully shoved out the door to get him away from the other man. He just wanted to linger, even if only to sit in silence next to John. But he knew, without a doubt, that his body - not to mention the bond that was still nudging him to shag John senseless - would have other plans for the evening. He stood across from the other man, slightly awkward again, unsure of who should make the first move. "Oh, this is ridiculous, I'm acting like a teenager again, aren't I?" Sherlock used his hold on John's hand to pull him closer, wrapping the unoccupied hand around his hip, his face tilted down to hover inches from John's own.

But how could John have possibly accidentally injured himself on the inside part of his thigh, and so high up? John nodded. His hours weren't very regular either, so that was the best option. Hopefully it wouldn't be weeks before they both had time again. The younger man grinned at Sherlock's use of the word teenager. Of course, Sherlock had been one, but what did that really mean to someone who lived so long? It was kind of silly to hear Sherlock talk like that, really. "Yes, you are." John murmured, but a had a silly, besotted smile on his face in that moment before he took Sherlock's face in his hands and pulled him close, taking a deep breath and then pressing his lips into Sherlock's. It was warm and soft and sweet, and fuck, John had missed this because it was exactly what he'd wanted these whole past three years. Sherlock's lips were like truly, finally belonging.

Sherlock leant in to the kiss, his lips moving in slow, gentle motions, not trying to rush anything or deepen it. This was enough, for the time being. It was sweet and loving and Sherlock's heart, the heart he'd thought had grown cold decades ago, pounded in his chest, causing a rush of blood to dust his cheeks with a rosy red that contrasted drastically with the white pallor of his skin. After a moment of indulgence, or, well, two or three, Sherlock drew away, sighing softly, his eyes half closed. He lifted his head to place a warm kiss to John's forehead, something that felt achingly familiar even after all the time they had spent apart. It felt like coming home, to Sherlock. "Shove me out the door now," He whispered, voice ever so slightly lowered and husky, once he'd dropped his lips back to an inch above John's own.

John chuckled low in his throat. Having Sherlock so close, feeling his feelings through the kisses…No doubt Sherlock could feel the tiny twinge of glee that John felt when he kissed his forehead. He'd missed it, missed everything. John almost couldn't imagine how he could have enjoyed this at all before he'd died. He'd needed it so much, to keep him sane and alive. He'd had no safety net, and Sherlock was his only means of survival. He'd clung to him, and it wasn't healthy.  Now John knew that he could live on his own. He could survive, successfully, even once in a while, happily, without Sherlock there. It wasn't a life he would ever want to live- Life without Sherlock was dull and lonely- but he _could_ live it. When there was less at stake, when these kisses weren't dire, weren't directly connected to his emotional and mental stability, they were so much more vivid, and slow, and detailed, and luxurious. John could feel Sherlock losing control, though, and he knew no matter how nice it was, it was time to part.  "Gladly." He hummed, and with the strength of one of their kind, he hoisted Sherlock into his arms, and didn't set him down again until they were standing in the hallway outside his loft. He put both hands on Sherlock shoulders and leaned up on his toes to kiss him again, just a little peck on the lips. "We'll keep in touch, right?" He said, grinning.

Sherlock made a startled little noise at being picked up, then laughed, a bright, loud sound that echoed around the room and hallway. He wrapped his arms around John's shoulders and nuzzled for a quick moment in to his throat before his feet hit the floor again. His lips quirked up in half smirk, half smile. "Yes. Text me whenever you would like. And I will try to answer should you call. No promises on that, though." John knew how he could be. A text he could fire off without interrupting his thought process, but a call was too involved, could completely distract him from some vital clue that he needed to solve a case. He'd try, however. It would always be nice to hear John's voice. Perhaps he'd even be able to ask John questions if he's on a case when John called.

John shook his head. "I'll try not to call. You prefer to text." He knew that about Sherlock and he knew why. He knew Sherlock rather well, actually. As complicated and brilliant as his mind was, Sherlock was a simple man at heart.

Sherlock leaned down and pressed a quick kiss to John's cheek before turning around, coat flaring out. "Good night, John. I'll look forward to seeing you again as soon as possible." He called behind him, forcing down a grin so that he was not smiling like a loon in public. That'd be unacceptable.

 "Yes, Sherlock, goodnight." He said softly, and as Sherlock left he could feel the hum of disappointment that Sherlock was leaving mixed wonderfully with contentedness at having Sherlock back and the fuzzy warmth of love. John watched him go before he returned to his flat, boxing up the food they hadn't eaten and finishing his glass of wine.


	28. Chapter 28

Sherlock spent the entire next day swept up in a new case- a slightly boring thing of stolen jewels, but it kept hold of his interest well enough, and he had ended up in a fist fight with the frightened young thief.  He was slightly ashamed and embarrassed by the black eye he was now sporting, but really, he couldn't possibly have dodged the other man's fist in a human fashion, and Lestrade had been standing right in the room. It would fade quickly, but it was a pride thing. Sherlock had obsessively been checking his phone, more so than usual, enough that Anderson had made the mistake of commenting on it. After Sherlock had verbally eviscerated him, he'd flounced away from the crime scene, black eye and all, to head back home, checking the phone at least four times during the ride back. The rivalry between them had only worsened these past three years, starting with the idiotic comments Anderson had made the first time Sherlock had shown up at a crime scene without John in tow. It had only degenerated from there, and the rest of the Yard probably hadn’t even thought I could get worse than it was previously. Sherlock was aware he was behaving in a very childish manner, but it didn't stop him from checking the phone for any new messages again while he was taking the stairs up to 221B. John was probably busy and working, and Sherlock knew that, and yet he still checked.

John really was very busy. In fact, he learned the next day in work that he was being put on a gang busting case and would be busy for a _while_. He was disappointed by it, but he also knew that this was just how his job was sometimes. It was a fulfilling, exciting career, really, so he should have to deal with things like this. He did text Sherlock, though, that first night, explaining that he would be busy, and then at least once every other day after. He missed Sherlock, wished he could finally take advantage of having him back. It was terrible to know he would have to wait just a bit longer. Sherlock might have said he could wait, but John couldn't. That was why he found himself stupidly texting Sherlock one night:

_It's so much harder when you're not around. When you were here I could tell myself to shut up. Without you here my imagination runs wild. I fantasize about you all the time and I can hardly stand it. – JW_

Sherlock paused the Mendelssohn concerto he had been playing on his violin. It had been the first in a very long time, the urge to pull the instrument out and actually play something, instead of bowing screeching noises. But he had been certain he'd heard his phone vibrate from within his bedroom. Sherlock gently placed the violin back in its case, putting the bow away, and made his way in to the room. He had been dealing with John's absence rather well, he'd thought. There was a constant dull ache caused by Sherlock missing him, but he'd gone about his days much in the usual fashion, only with a bit of a spring in his step. He missed John, he thought about him often, and there were moments when Sherlock would become completely distracted by thinking about aspects of his person, such as his hands and fingers or his tongue or the way sunlight would turn his hair golden and silver in the mornings. But overall, Sherlock was much more content than he had been before John had showed up at 221B. Sherlock snatched his phone up from where it was resting on his bed, then promptly dropped down to the bed himself as he read the text. Sherlock swallowed before he replied, reminding himself to be open with his words, that it was not shameful to show that he was actually in possession of emotions. He did not like the tone of John's message. Sherlock missed the other man as well, horribly, but John seemed worse off.

_I miss you as well. I think about you constantly, John, even in the middle of cases. I ache to touch you, to feel you, and as the days pass I have to force myself in to believing that I had not imagined you showing up here. That I did not imagine kissing you again. - SH_

 Sherlock finished his text and sent it, then dropped back to his bed, staring at the ceiling, a seemingly favorite pastime of his.

John read Sherlock's text, and tried to swallow the lump in his throat. Sherlock thought about him in the middle of cases, and he wasn't even complaining about it.  Sherlock was right; it was scary how much he loved John. John let his eyes slip closed with his phone on his chest. Sherlock had misunderstood the purpose of his post and seen straight through to the real issue. John had been hoping for some naughty texting to make him feel less lonely. He hadn't been expecting something this...emotional. John swallowed, and wrote back:

_I want to see you. I'm exhausted and useless right now and I'm across town and I have work early in the morning and it's already late, but I want to see you. – JW_

Sherlock read the text while holding the phone over his head, still stretched out on the bed. The whole concept of 'naughty texting' was beyond Sherlock. He had heard of such things, of course, as they were often useful during crime solving - acts of passion had to have build up, you know - but personally could never see the appeal. Perhaps he was simply old fashioned, and needed physical intimacy for those sorts of things, not just words on a screen or impersonal pictures. But Sherlock simply blinked and flipped his phone around, snapping a picture of himself in this moment, head resting on a pillow and eyes wide, a half smile on his lips. He looked incredibly awkward, as if he were not quite sure what he was doing, but also as if he couldn't give two fucks over seeming awkward anyway. His hair was a fluffed mess, falling around his face in perfectly artful disarray, and the first button of his black shirt being undone with his head tilted back combined to bare rather a lot of his throat. That hadn't been on purpose, it was just a result of how he had to angle the phone for the picture, but he thought that it would serve for his purposes. He sent it with a message attached.

_Will this suffice, then? I suspect that even if I were to travel to your place you might pass out from exhaustion before I got there. SH_

John was surprised that the next message was a picture message. Sherlock had near perfect recall, and as such he hardly ever took pictures with his phone. When John opened it up it was to see his(what, boyfriend? Lover? Better go with something definite) mate had taken a picture of himself lying in bed, smiling awkwardly, and with his neck exposed like some non-existent cleavage on some pre-teen girl taking a picture of herself in a bathroom mirror. It wasn't sexy in the least, but that didn't matter. Sherlock was trying, and Sherlock wanted to be there for him, with him. John bit his lower lip even as he was trying to smile.

_You're acting like a teenager again. - JW <3 _

He stopped and looked at the picture some more, and then sent another text.

_Christ, that helped me more than it should have. I can't wait until this is over. - JW_

Sherlock chuckled softly at the first text and had “You do seem to draw it out of me, don't you?” written before John's next text interrupted it. Sherlock couldn't help the warm feeling in his chest, that John must have felt over the bond, at his silly little picture having helped John in any way. Sherlock went back to the text he was writing.

_I'm glad that I can be of some service, John. I cannot wait as well. How much longer, do you suppose? I have had an offer for another case, but I am taking...a break, as it were._ Sherlock toyed with adding anything else, and after a moment he decided to add the obvious. _I miss you. – SH_

John spent the short minutes waiting for Sherlock's response staring at Sherlock’s picture message. He didn't have any pictures of Sherlock, none at all, and while this wasn't the kind of thing one framed, it was still worthwhile to him.  Sherlock's hair was all mussed and he was pale as always, and his eyes were gorgeous and even though the goofy look on his face made the picture goofy looking rather than sexy, John still licked his lips a little as he thoroughly inspected the freckles on his throat. Sherlock. And he belonged to John. It all seemed unreal, and he wanted it so much. Sherlock's first text made him chuckle, and the second one made him sigh softly.

_I'm not sure. I think we're getting to the bottom of this gang problem. You can't break them up or put a dent in their trade, but if you can stop them from killing each other that's worth something, isn't it? Not worth it to me to have to wait for you, but it is my job. So don't take a break on cases on my account <3 – JW_

Sherlock shifted until he was sitting up, crossing his long legs underneath of him and holding the phone on his lap while he waited for John's response. When it came he nodded in agreement. Gangs were hard. They were tricky. If you bust one section, there's always several others still running. That was part of the reason why Sherlock did not deal with gang related incidents. Not only were they boring and totally predictable, they were unfulfilling for him.

_I can assure, while it was a factor in my decision, I'm not taking off just for you. I've worked non-stop for the last few years, for lack of anything better to do, or any drive to do anything else. A break shall be good for me. I'll read up on my backlog of science journals, or do some experiments. While I wait for you._ He paused, considering if he should make this request he was considering. _Your phone also has a camera_ – _SH._ It wasn't a question.

When John got the message he rolled his eyes and took a picture of himself and sent it to Sherlock. He was smiling in it, and it was obvious from his shoulders that he wasn't wearing a shirt of any kind. He managed to be less awkward than Sherlock, but no phone self-portrait really managed to be natural looking.  He sent it to Sherlock, not realizing how visible the bags under his eyes were. Then he sent another one, of himself miming being asleep with his eyes closed and his mouth hanging open. On that one, he put a ' <3 ' in the message box. Then he sent a word text.

_Well, enjoy your break, then. As you can see, I'm fading fast. Goodnight, Sherlock. I love you. – JW_

Sherlock frowned at the first photo, concern spiking over the bond. John really did look exhausted. The second photo insured that John felt the warm glow of Sherlock's fondness. He didn't understand how a grown man could be so adorable. It defied logic.

_I will. And do not let them push you too hard, John. It seems you need a break of your own. I love you as well. - SH_

Talking to John like this was nice, but every time the conversation ended, Sherlock felt an inevitable pang of loneliness. He would have liked John to drift off to sleep within his arms, would have liked to whisper goodnight against John's flesh, not through text message. But it was still better than how it had been a month ago, and so Sherlock did not complain.

Three days later, it happened again. John was exhausted, and he wanted to see Sherlock. He didn't want to ask Sherlock to come over....Except he really wanted Sherlock to come over. Surely Sherlock had better things to do than to watch him while he slept. But John also didn't want to be alone tonight, either. He wanted his mate. He'd gone almost two weeks without seeing him and he wanted him so badly it hurt. Not knowing what to text him about if not to invite him over, he simply sent “Hey <3”. It was extremely out of character for John, but he didn't seem to realize it. He also didn't realize that he was emitting a low stream of lonely misery through the bond.

The response to John's text message was nearly instant.

_Hello. Open your door, would you? It's a bit nippy in this hallway. - SH_

Sherlock had suffered for several hours through the misery he had been feeling from John, until he couldn't stand it any longer. He'd glanced at the clock, deemed it late enough that John would be at home, but not late enough for him to yet be asleep, and taken off after grabbing his coat. He'd been a second away from knocking when he'd felt John's text buzz his phone in his coat pocket. John could send him on his way again after a brief visit if he wanted to, but Sherlock needed to see him, even only for a little bit, and from the feel of the bond, John needed to see him as well. It might have been unacceptable to show up randomly without invitation or warning after only one semi-date for a normal relationship, but this was certainly not a normal relationship. They were already irrevocably in love with each other, they already knew each other carnally, and it would be stupid to act as if that were not the case. If John didn't want him here, he'd leave. But Sherlock had absolutely nothing he wanted to do more than he wanted to see his bondmate. It had been far too long already.

John read the text and didn't bother replying. He just pushed himself up from his sofa and threw the door open, stepping through it and into Sherlock's arms. He laid his head on Sherlock's chest and wrapped his arms around Sherlock's waist, and took in a deep breath of him. "How did you know?" He asked, nuzzling into him a bit with his face. God, thank god, Sherlock was there, finally. It felt so good to be pressed against him again. John felt a pang of guilt. He'd been insinuating for a while that he'd show Sherlock a good time the next time they were together, but he was far too tired tonight for anything like that. He didn't want to lead Sherlock on or deprive him of sex, but...He was just completely drained.

Sherlock rocked back on his heels slightly, wrapping an arm around John's waist while his other hand trailed up John's back to card in to the hair at the base of his neck, stroking and petting there gently. "I could feel you." He answered simply. Sherlock honestly did not care if they shagged right now or not. In fact, he would not want to. It was very obvious how tired John was, and the nuzzling only instilled within Sherlock the need to take care of his mate, and that did not include sex at the moment. Sherlock hugged him tight for a quiet while, then pulled John back in to his own home. He glanced quickly around the place, taking in any of the differences two weeks might have made. He kept as close to John as possible, trying to lessen the feelings of loneliness he had been getting as quickly as possible. It had become a physical ache in Sherlock's chest, knowing that his mate was suffering it.

Well, it was going away rather quickly. He couldn't be lonely when Sherlock was right there with him. It was a relief. The place was a bit of a mess, now. John hadn't had time to clean for a while. He hadn't bothered eating, since he didn't need to, so there were no dishes, but his laundry hamper seemed to be overflowing, and much of John's mail was still out on the kitchen counter. The curtains around his bed were drawn open, and it was obvious he'd done a lot of tossing and turning over the last few days. "I'm sorry I'm not much of a host right now." He said softly, arm in arm with Sherlock, threading their fingers together. "Can I get you anything?" He chewed on his lower lip. "I was about to go to bed, actually..." He didn't want to make Sherlock leave or ask him to stay, but he also knew it was a bad idea to not sleep when he felt like he was about to pass out.

Sherlock shook his head and began to draw John towards his bed. "I don't need anything. I'm not here for me, you know. I am here for you." Sherlock turned so that he was facing John, and he lifted a hand to lightly cup the side of John's face. "You haven't been sleeping. I can feel you, nearly every night. It hurts, now that the block is gone." Sherlock cast a significant glance back to the rumbled bed. "I would stay here tonight, with you, if you would let me." John looked dead on his feet, and another flare of worry and concern and achingly tender love washed over the bond. Sherlock felt like a horrible mate, seeing him like this. The bond urged them to take care of each other, and it felt awful to see the obvious, that he had not been taking care of John. He knew that it was not his job to do it, that he could handle himself, but the bond was insistent.

John could feel it from him, and he shook his head. "I'm sorry I worried you." He said, reaching his hands up to Sherlock's face and giving him a soft kiss right on the lips, because he still wanted to be as close to Sherlock as possible. He sighed softly and gave his bed a long, significant look. "I'd like you to stay, but..." He lifted his eyes back to Sherlock's. "I get my best sleep in my cat form, and I know that makes you uncomfortable." He wouldn't tell Sherlock how much he wished he could sleep on Sherlock's chest or in his lap or tucked into his side or curled around his head or on top of his feet. He wouldn't mention how good Sherlock's hands had felt in his fur that day.

Now that Sherlock was here, he really did not want to leave. Even if John used his ability to shift shape, Sherlock did not want to leave. John was not the only one dealing with the separation, even if he did seem worse off from it. Sherlock missed him, and he was here, and he did not want to leave his presence. Even if the other man would be a cat. "I'll stay," He said softly. "I won't even mind the animal thing. A lot." It'd bug him a bit, but he wouldn't truly let it bother him. He'd sit all night with a cat curled up on his stomach or chest or wherever, so long as he was here. He might take off his shirt if John wouldn't mind, however, because that had been ginger fur and it would show horribly on Sherlock's shirt. No one had ever said Sherlock Holmes was not vain or prideful.

John's lips twitched in an uncertain smile. "I....Uhm, alright." He stepped away from Sherlock and threw off his shirt, and then stepped out of his bottoms. There was a dark spot on his upper thigh, and even at a glance, there was no way someone like Sherlock wouldn't notice it. When John lifted his leg to get it out of his pants, it was clear what the dark spot was. It was a tattoo. On closer inspection, Sherlock could see the redness around it, and that it was a freshly healed one. It couldn't have been there more than say, two weeks and some change. He could also see that the ink was scrolling black letters. From his vantage point he could only see

_ock_

_es_

But it wasn't exactly a mystery what it might say.

Sherlock didn't blink at John stripping out of his clothes - it made sense, after all - but he did do so when he caught sight of the black mark on John's skin. His eyes narrowed as he tried to make out what it was, and then he blinked again when he figured it out. "John," he said, completely surprised. There was a strong, intense flash of self-loathing and guilt that John could feel before he stamped down on it, strangled it and buried it alive. "I-. I can't believe you-" Sherlock broke off in a stutter, still stunned and ever so slightly aroused that John had marked himself, permanently, with Sherlock's own name. The guilt and loathing were back, and he couldn't shove it away. He winced, knowing John would feel it.

John hadn't forgotten it was there. He'd kind of hoped Sherlock wouldn't notice. Wouldn't it be a wonderful thing to discover in the throes of passion? But of course he did. John was surprised when he felt Sherlock's reaction, though. He'd been expecting arousal, because he felt it every time he told Sherlock that he was his, and that was there, but he wasn't expecting the guilt and the self-hate that radiated from Sherlock. What the hell! Where had that even come from?! Why was he upset in the first place, let alone at himself. John felt awkward then, standing there naked, but this had to be dealt with. "Sherlock- What's wrong?" He asked, looking confused and disbelieving himself.

Sherlock cleared his throat and looked away, though his eyes kept drawing back towards that tattoo. Every time he did, he felt another little bit of arousal mixed confusingly with disappointment - in himself. "Nothing. It's nothing important, John. Shift. You need to sleep. It's positively worrying how tired you seem." He shoved all of his emotions down and away, focusing now on John's face, at the haggard appearance and the bags under his eyes. He just wanted John to get some much needed rest, and then he'd seen the tattoo, and he couldn't stop thinking of- Well. Like he'd said, it was not important. He didn't need to inform John. Especially not right now, when John was so strung out.

John chewed on his lower lip, a habit he seemed to have picked up sometime over the past three years. "It's not nothing. You're upset. Tell me." He swallowed, and then decided that he better explain. "I mean, it's not going anywhere. I didn't get it for you. I got it for me. I got it that day I came to Baker Street, before I even knew if you'd come back to me." It was irrelevant, after all. Even if Sherlock had rejected him, John still knew who he belonged to. That he would come back to Sherlock after everything was just proof of it, and John was sure. He wanted to have Sherlock's name pricked into his skin, to be stained there forever. "I had hoped that you would like it, though..." He frowned a bit, not meeting Sherlock's eyes. He hadn't thought it would be a bad thing...

Sherlock stepped closer, eyes wide and voice sincere. "Oh, no, I do. I do, I really, really do." His eyes darted back down to it again, as if he needed to reaffirm that it was real and hadn't disappeared. "My name is permanently marked in to your body, John. You must know just how much I had always wanted to do something of the sort. I was not thinking a tattoo, but...But this is." Sherlock swallowed, catching John's gaze again. "It's lovely. I love it, and you, and what is causing me upset is not important. Perhaps later I'll...I'll tell you," And it would be painful to talk about, but he would tell John if he still wanted to know. "But you need to sleep now."

John knew that Sherlock wasn't lying. Sherlock did like it. So then what could possibly be the problem? John decided that he wouldn't press Sherlock for more tonight. "You will tell me." He tried to defuse the situation. "If you're going to get all guilty every time you try to give me head, I want to know why." His smile didn't quite make it to his eyes. "You didn't...You know you're not responsibly for it, right? I got it for me, and it was my decision, and I did it before I even knew if I would ever see you again. I wanted it, I wanted to have your name branded on me forever. And I'm glad I got it." He wasn't sure how glad he would be if Sherlock felt this way every time he saw it, though.

Sherlock sighed, "I know," answering both parts of John's statements. He would spill later, he knew he must, and perhaps that would alleviate some of his guilt. At the moment, however, he was tight lipped, and while the guilty feeling never quite vanished, it did fade, even when he kept glancing back to the tattoo. Sherlock sat down on the edge of John's bed, gesturing towards it with one hand while the other went to work on removing his shoes, not very subtly changing the subject. "Do you mind if I lay here, then? I would prefer to stretch out while you sleep. I may even do the same." He'd slept two nights ago, and that would usually be enough for him, but he felt warm and content enough at the moment to drift off if he allowed himself to relax.

John shook his head. "Of course not. Make yourself comfortable." He took a step forward and gave one of Sherlock's shoulder's a squeeze. "Thank you for coming over, I mean it- I'd be miserable right now without you here.” He leaned in and pressed a kiss to Sherlock's lips, murmured a goodnight, and then took a step away as he changed. Feline John shook out his fur and blinked up at Sherlock, seeming hesitant, but he wriggled his rear a bit before he jumped up onto the bed, walking around behind Sherlock, coming to awkwardly sit next to him, wrapping his tail around his paws. He looked up at Sherlock with his big green eyes, wondering if there was a protocol for this sort of thing.

Sherlock enjoyed the brief little kiss immensely, and it helped to sooth his troubled mind. He inhaled deeply, then chuckled and lifted the cat up, curling his large hand around John's much smaller body, and placed him in his lap while he crossed his legs underneath of him. Sherlock's other hand stroked slowly down John's back, scratching lightly at his neck every time he lifted his hand to pet a line down again. "You are very adorable like this, do you know?" He did not mention he found John adorable anyway. Most men do not like to hear terms like that applied to their person, Sherlock had observed. "I will tell you, I promise, you deserve to know. But just not quite yet. I don't want you upset with me just quite yet," He whispered, half to himself, half to John, while he continued to stroke his hand up and down John's feline body.

John wasn't expecting Sherlock to just pick him up, and he gave a little squeak at the dignity of it, but once he was settled warm in Sherlock's lap, he wriggled his whole body until he was pressed into the warmth of Sherlock's inseams. Of course, John could understand English perfectly, even as a cat. He couldn't help the purr rumbling up from his throat at Sherlock's hand, which was larger than John's head even was, and which was smoothing down over him and scritching him just wonderfully. John let his head fall and he found a place on Sherlock’s thigh for his claws, which he gently kneaded into Sherlock's leg. Enough to prick him but not really hurt him, in that way that cats showed affecting in return. It was largely reflexive for his paws to do that when he was being pet and purring like this, but he didn't want to waste this regard on the mattress. Sherlock's petting was even better than Mrs. Hudson's had been. It was like Sherlock had practice, had known cats in his life. When Sherlock admitted to thinking that John might be upset with him, he lifted his head up, and butted it against Sherlock's hand an the soonest opportunity. John was worried about what it could possibly be, but he didn’t like Sherlock keeping secrets from him, and he didn't like Sherlock being hurt by this. He hoped that maybe his adorableness could make Sherlock feel a little better.

Sherlock smiled, a complete softening of his face, and he stroked the underside of John's little jaw when he butted his head in to Sherlock's hand. The adorableness really did help Sherlock loose some of the tension he had been holding in his shoulders. Mainly it was just amusing to see John like this, and if he was still a bit bothered by seeing another vampire in this form, well, he could ignore it. "Sleep, John." He said softly, shifting so that he could place his back to the headboard. While he would have preferred holding John while he was in his human form, this would have to do for now. Sherlock would keep him in his lap like this the entire night if it would help John rest. He needed it so much more than Sherlock did, and wasn't that a role reversal. Before it had always been Sherlock who ran himself in to the ground with work.

John nodded his little kitty head, and laid his chin on Sherlock's thigh, flopping over a bit so that he was laying on his side, back and belly now both bared for Sherlock's hands. Yes, he would sleep well this way, as a cat and with Sherlock. This sleep might just be heaven. He tried to put Sherlock's reaction out of his mind, and instead he projected how contented he was through the bond, wanting Sherlock to know just how magnificent this was, and just how grateful he was that Sherlock had showed up today at all. John didn't stop purring even as he drifted into sleep.

Sherlock continued to stroke his hand lightly along John's belly, even as he fell asleep, while his mind took off and began to twist itself in to snarls like it usually did when he had nothing specific to occupy his attention. He spent the entire night petting the man-turned-animal in his lap, alternating between staring at him and staring blankly in to space. It passed quietly, contentedly even though he had nothing to do but think, and soon dawn began to creepy through the windows. Sherlock had been dozing lightly for the last hour and a half, but his eyes cracked open as he registered the change in lighting.

John had been up and down the way that cats often where when they slept, but he got a full night of sleep. He'd woken up even before the sun had come up, knowing for sure that he was fully rested, more so than he'd ever been, and he looked up at Sherlock, who thought he dozed but really slept like the dead for short spans of time. Sherlock was asleep enough that he wouldn't notice the light cat getting up from his lap, using the loo, and then coming back as an adult man. John pulled on some pajama bottoms and carefully laid his head back in Sherlock's lap, closing his eyes and letting himself doze for a bit. He loved this, having Sherlock back.

Sherlock blinked twice while his brain came back online, then glanced down at his lap at the change in weight he had not been expecting. "Oh," He exhaled, smiling sleepily. Sherlock slid a hand lightly through John's hair, and he enjoyed it several times more than petting through fur. He yawned wide, and then that soft humming purr from before pervaded the silence of the room. In this moment, right now, Sherlock was completely and utterly content. The only thing that would be coming across the bond was a lazy sense of happiness and love.

John opened his eyes, looking up at Sherlock through them, and he gave a wily little smile. "You have a very comfortable lap." He said, humor dancing in his eyes. "And you're superb at petting. Pay more attention to the face and tummy next time, though, they're the best parts." He chewed his lower lip again, this time in an almost flirty manner, and he reached up with both hands to intercept one of Sherlock's. He gently played with it, rubbing his fingers over each of Sherlock's one at a time with a little smile on his face, marveling almost childishly at the warmth of them. They had felt really, really good as a cat.

Sherlock smiled slightly, eyes still a bit glazed with sleep. Usually he awoke quickly, because his natural instinct was to be as invulnerable as possible, as quickly as possible. But the only other person in this room was John, and Sherlock felt entirely safe being vulnerable with him, if that made any sense. He let John play with his hands, the purring noise picking up again while he indulged the other man his inspection. "Thank you, I think. Mummy never allowed us any pets, which certainly made sense, and so I have never really pet any animals before. Glad to know I'm doing it right, and I will be sure to keep your advice in mind next time you crawl in to my lap as a cat." The way he spoke implied that John would be crawling in to his lap as a human sometime soon if Sherlock had any say over it. Sherlock twists his hand so that now he is stroking his fingers lightly up and down John's own, trailing the pads and the tips over the bone of his wrist, then up his palm.

John shuddered. Hands weren't exactly erogenous zones, even for vampires who seemed to have a few more than humans, but the little warm touches still felt good enough to be sinful. "Well, now you have a cat all to yourself, now don't you? I'm sure you'll get plenty of practice." He hoped he really didn't bother Sherlock too much when he was a cat. He was really fond of being one, actually. It was so simple and nice, and people tended to be honest about how they felt about you. If they liked you they'd pet you and feed you and invite you in, and if they didn't they hissed and shooed you away. They didn't talk behind your back like they did when you were human, or avoid you entirely like vampires. Why were humanoids so passive aggressive? It seemed sometimes like the only honest man he'd ever met was Sherlock. John watched Sherlock slowly wake up, and he wondered how he'd gotten so lucky. "You're good at petting me as a person too." He pointed out.

Sherlock chuckled and dragged his free hand through John's hair again, stroking it away from his face, and John felt a warm wash of affection through the bond. "That can be taken several different ways, John." Sherlock responded with half a smirk, voice dropping ever so slightly so that his rather pointed point would come across. He felt particularly inclined to playfulness this morning, something that was rather out of character for him. But he was completely relaxed with his mate's head in his lap, and he felt he was allowed this.

Yes, yes he was allowed this. Sherlock was allowed anything he wanted- John wanted to be able to give it to him. He still had another hour before he needed to start getting ready for work. That meant he had another hour of Sherlock all to himself. John chuckled at Sherlock's joke, and then closed his eyes to enjoy the feeling of Sherlock touching him. John cursed himself and his old fashioned values. If he didn't feel like they should do it sometime when he didn't have to worry about being at work, he would be climbing into Sherlock's lap right now, sucking on his throat and finding the sensitive spots on his torso with his fingers. That led John to a thought. "Sherlock...This is hard. Being away from you all this time because of work." He swallowed. "And I don't think it's going to get better. My job is pretty demanding." His whole life was demanding. It needed to be, to keep him occupied, to keep him strong, and to keep him from thinking about Sherlock. Well. That wasn't working out so well, was it?

Sherlock paused in the process of trailing his fingers down the side of John's neck in a light, teasing touch. He did not like the sound of this. It sounded as if...Well. He simply didn't like it. Sherlock drew both hands away, placing them on the bed on either side of himself. "What do you want to do, John?" He asked in a quiet voice, mind racing with John's possible replies, and most of them would break Sherlock. Chief among them was 'I think it's best if we don't do this'. Sherlock was not sure if he could handle that, if he could handle having John again only for him to decide that it was too much, or that he couldn't balance his life with Sherlock and so Sherlock had to go. In many things Sherlock was confident, bordering on narcissistic, but not in this. Definitely not in these matters, and he was rarely confident in dealing with the still foreign concept of mutual love.

John could feel Sherlock's dread through the bond, and he shook his head, reaching up with his hands now to caress Sherlock's face. He decided to give Sherlock the simple truth. "Chucking you out and never seeing you again is....It's a possibility, but it's my last resort." He sighed. "I'm going to take some vacation days after this is all over, and we'll see what we can sort out, alright?" He felt half inclined to ask Sherlock to move in with him- But he couldn't. He felt a pang of guilt even suggesting it. Because he knew Sherlock would do it. And that would be wrong, it would be a shame for Sherlock not to be in Baker Street. Canary Wharf was perfect for John, but it wasn't right for Sherlock, not in the least bit. "Believe me, I'll be holding onto you with everything I have. I don't want to give you up."

Sherlock really didn't know if he would move in with John if asked. In a way, he would certainly leap at the chance to live with the other man again, to always be within his presence when they were both there. But Baker Street really was his home, even without John there. It simply felt right for him, and what better landlady could he ask for than an honest to god Angel? If John asked, they might find themselves at an impasse. Baker Street was perfect for him, and this place was perfect for John. He did not want either of them to give up their homes for them to be together. "I'll look forward to your vacation, then." Sherlock replied after a moment of silence. "I do not want to separate again. I missed you far too much the first time. I couldn't-" He broke off, glancing away from the man in his lap. He didn't want to admit that he probably would not be able to function if John left him again.

That was exactly why John wouldn't be asking him to do any such thing. If Sherlock wanted to live with him, he'd have to offer it himself. John would move back there, but...As much as he'd loved Baker Street, it just wasn't him anymore. John shook his head. Sherlock's feelings were so turbulent at the moment, and John hated it. "Shhh." He said, trying to soothe Sherlock, running his thumbs over Sherlock's cheeks. "We'll be alright." He said softly. "If I have anything to say about it. I don't like the idea of splitting up any more than you do. I've just gotten you back and it's the best thing that's happened to me in a while." And he needed Sherlock, or his life would be empty and lonely and sad...But it would be _his_ life, still.

Sherlock turned his head to press a soft kiss in to the palm of John's hand, looking down at him while he did so, but there was a quick little pang of guilt, the first since the night before when he had noticed John's tattoo. He felt he should mention something, but if John would be upset at what Sherlock had to say, he did not want him distracted while at a dangerous job..."I hope so." He said, swallowing. Once more he felt torn, and it was something he had not felt in over a year.

John hated this pain that Sherlock kept feeling. They were together. That was a good thing, and it hopefully wouldn't change. John let his hands fall from Sherlock's face, and he pushed himself up to sit next to Sherlock against the headboard, pressing their shoulders together. He took Sherlock's hand in his own. "Hey. Take a deep breath, it will be alright. All this happiness, it's not fake." He smiled softly, and decided that Sherlock needed a little proof. He leaned over him and found his lips, kissing him softly and hoping he could convince Sherlock with pure bliss how little he needed to worry.

Sherlock, perhaps, did not need to worry, but he could not help thinking John did. Or more accurately, Sherlock did need to worry about how John would react to what he had to say. Sherlock leaned in to the kiss, his hand rising to slide around to the back of John's neck, using it to pull him closer. Sherlock's tongue darted out and traced the lines of John's lips, for the first time kissing him in a way that was not completely chaste. But he drew back before it could go any deeper than that, and he took a deep breath. "John, listen. Several months ago I began to slip in to depression. The first week you left, it was acceptable and even expected. I did not leave much, and Mycroft had to irk me in to taking cases again. But it was nearly a year ago that my loneliness hit me all at once. I looked at my life and all I saw were cases of murder after theft after suicide. That never used to bother me. But then I met you. And then I lost you." Sherlock glances away, swallowing, the sound loud in the quiet. "As I said, I became depressed. I'd grown used to your physical and emotional affection, and I missed it so much it drove me to distraction. One night it drove me to a pub where I met a man named Victor. I slept with him for two months, and for those two months you must have felt absolutely nothing from the bond because of how tightly I had it locked down. I hated myself. The bond screamed at me because he was not my mate, and I screamed at myself because it was meaningless and I was only using him for the physical. Try as I might, I could not convince myself that I was not...I was not cheating on you, because you might have gone, but I still considered myself to be yours. I always will. And then a few months later you show up on my doorstep, right when I had been considering leaving London because there was no way you could still want me after all this time, after three years. And then last night I see that you have basically branded my name in to your skin, while I had done that only a short while ago." Sherlock's hands clenched on top of his thighs, his nails digging in to the skin under the fabric of his trousers. He refused to look over at John, to see the expression on his face. John could quite clearly feel the self-loathing Sherlock had spoken of, because it was back in force.

As soon as Sherlock revealed his secret, he could feel John's reaction. Hate at the man who had even thought he was allowed to touch John's Sherlock. Aggression. Possessiveness. But John's feelings about relationships were more heavily anchored in the human side of things. He wasn't angry at Sherlock, no matter how inconsolably enraged the situation made him. He forced himself to take a deep breath and continue listening to Sherlock. His mate's self-loathing was not okay, either. John found Sherlock's hand, and he gripped it tight. Sherlock needed to know that this situation was not a deal breaker, but it was serious, too. "You didn't cheat on me, Sherlock. You weren't unfaithful, and you didn't betray me. You never would, you don't have it in you." That much was true. Surely Sherlock was just trying to make himself feel better. It had been rough. John had been depressed for a long while as well. "You are mine now, though. And I don't want to even think of any bit of you being his." Sherlock's poor reaction to it was already proof enough, but John needed more. "I'm upset. How could I not be? I hate the thought of anyone else's hands on you, ever. You're my mate." He said it with the conviction of someone born to vampiracy. "We can fix this. Pretend it never happened. I just need to take you back from him."

Sherlock turned, eyes wide as he felt John's emotions, after the initial wince that was brought about by assuming all that rage was directed at him. He shivered slightly at John calling him his mate like that, like he really, truly understood what that meant to someone like Sherlock. Sherlock hastened to assure the other man, "None of me belongs to him, John. It was simply sex, something to pass the time and to relieve the tension that was building up- because of you. I kept thinking of you, over and over, and there is only so much wanking one can do, John." His hand squeezed tight around John's own. "To me, afterwards, it felt like cheating, because you are the only one I should be with. The only one I wanted. Victor means nothing to me, and no one else ever will. The entire time, every single time, I wished his body were yours." Sherlock twisted so that his torso and head were completely facing John. He needed John to believe him in this. Not once, in the entire two months, did he ever think of Victor Trevor in a romantic sense. The only reason Sherlock had returned was because the sex was good and it was better than his own hand. It had been nice to lay in someone's arms while the rush faded, to pretend like it had been John, but then he would get up, get dressed, and leave. It had started simply because it was mutually beneficial. "But he wanted more than I could give. He did not simply want sex any longer. So I left, and I certainly, most definitely, will never, ever regret that."

John shook his head though. It didn't matter that it was only sex. "I don't even want the ghosts of his hands on you." He said, almost a hiss. "Just because it didn't mean anything doesn't mean it didn't happen, and I hate it." He shuddered, trying to relieve himself of the sudden tension all throughout his body. John needed to make Sherlock his. He didn't need a tattoo. He did need to have sex with Sherlock, roughly, passionately, and better than Victor Trevor could ever give Sherlock. The bond yelled at him, ached for him to also exchange blood with Sherlock...But on the off chance that they had to part again, perhaps it was best to wait on that.

Sherlock groaned, a rough sound that clawed its way from his throat, when he sensed everything that John was feeling at this moment. His own end of the bond was yelling at him as well, telling him he needed to allow John to erase everything Sherlock had ever done with anyone who was not his mate. He wanted it, oh, how he ached for it, but he knew just as well as John that should they need to leave each other, it would only make things worse. But he would not like it, not one bit. "I want you to make me forget it," He said through clenched teeth, trying to keep ahold of his control. "I just simply want you, John. Hard, fast, slow, tender, I don't even care, I just simply need you to take me." Sherlock's eyes slid closed as his mind played out different scenarios for him. He hated his over active brain, for once, because this was not making it easier in the least. "I know you can't right now. But it does not stop me from wanting."

John didn't let Sherlock suffer in his imagination for long. John was clenching his teeth as well, and he ground out, "You have no idea, Sherlock. As soon as I get my days off I'm going to ride you so hard you're not even going to remember his name." And Sherlock had perfect recall, so it would be a feat. The growl wasn't meant to be sexy. It was a warning. Sherlock needed to know- this was non-negotiable. It wasn't that John was going to rape Sherlock. Sherlock could walk away or say no at any moment...But if he didn't, he needed to know that John was going to do what he had to to fix the problem of Victor. John closed his eyes tight. "You're going to be mine and nobody is going to so much as look at you ever again." John realized what he was saying, and he swallowed, looking up at Sherlock worriedly. Words like these were exactly the kind that meant that something was terribly wrong in a human relationship. Was it different because they were vampires, because they were mated? Or was everything John was saying terrifying and wrong? It was how he really felt. He didn't want to share Sherlock, not with anyone, and he wanted to prove that he was the only one for Sherlock.

John needn't have worried. Sherlock responded the way every vampire would have, with arousal and the thrill of being claimed like that. Sherlock twisted sideways and lurched himself towards John with a throaty moan and a hastily whispered, "Oh, Jesus," and then his mouth was on John's, hard and demanding and while Sherlock had no intentions of taking it farther than kissing, he wanted his fill of John. They would wait until John had his days off, and it would be better for their waiting, but he needed something to hold him over. "When you get your time off, I am going to keep you in bed for days," He full out growled the last word against the other man's lips, voice dropping lower and taking on a completely inhuman snarl of lust. He drew back, dropping hot, wet kisses to the vulnerable skin of John's throat, something that, while nice when human, took on a whole new meaning as a vampire - the throat was where you aimed in a fight, to rip it open, and there was always the thrill of danger when another vampire had his teeth so close to the area, but John liked danger, loved the adrenaline rush of it, didn't he? - and he took up whispering, "Yours, John. I am yours so long as you are mine. And you are going to prove it to me. Burn it in to my skin. Make me forget."

John had dropped right into the kiss, sucking Sherlock's tongue into his mouth and running his own over it, needing Sherlock right now in this very same way. If Sherlock had kissed Victor, then his mouth had just been reclaimed in the name of John Watson. It was going to stay that way. Having Sherlock kissing him was sending a flush down his whole body, making him warm and needy. He had to hold himself back as Sherlock growled at him and something inside him responded to it. John didn't hold his own noises back. A low rumble started in his throat, and he said "You better." In a way that suggested there would be severe consequences if Sherlock didn't.  Sherlock could feel John's pulse pumping in his throat. He knew Sherlock wouldn't kill him, but he did have teeth and he was capable of doing intense damage to him. His breath became labored because Sherlock's lips were searing, and his words were so soft and sincere. John could only think to hiss "Mine!" with his voice on the offensive, that low feral quality still hanging to it.

Sherlock slid his hands down John's side, his nails catching lightly along the bared skin there, down past his hips until he could curl his fingers around the backs of his knees and use his hold to pull, stretching John out so that Sherlock could crawl on top of him, straddling his hips and once more locking their lips together. Sherlock's tongue darted out, invading, rediscovering the cavern of John's mouth. He kept up a constant stream of low growls, of whispered words that were sure to set John's already flushed and hot body on fire. Sherlock rested one hand by the side of John's head, using it to hold his weight, and the other dragged harshly down John's chest, leaving a trail of red marks - not hard enough to really hurt, just enough to prick the skin and make it burn and tingle. Sherlock, dazed with lust as he was, still reminded himself not to grind down like he wanted to, because that would take this from some rather intense kissing to something they had both decided to wait on. It was very hard to resist, but he did. "Want you," He moaned, pulling back to stare down at the man underneath of him. Sherlock's hair was a mess again, and there was a flush that stained his high cheeks and travelled the entire way down his throat. His eyes were hooded and glazed over with his lust, mouth open slightly while he panted with his need. Sherlock looked completely and utterly debauched, and he was still entirely clothed.

John just took it, catching his own hands on Sherlock's shirt, gripping it tight rather than ripping it open, as he longed to do. John was on fire- he was hot all over, and sweating slightly, and he wanted Sherlock so much he could hardly breathe. He was hard now, undoubtedly, and he wanted Sherlock's hands all over him, wanted more than just Sherlock's tongue inside his mouth, wanted everything Sherlock had to offer. The drag of fingernails made him moan breathlessly, made his hips shift, but then Sherlock moved away. John blinked up at him, eyes dark with desire, and John was panting just as well. Thank god Sherlock had pushed himself away, because if he hadn't John would have taken what he needed right there in an insane moment of possessiveness. John swallowed. "Want you too." He said, but this time it was a soft thing, not sexually charged. "You should probably go."

Sherlock nodded, swallowed, and tried to get himself under control enough to leave. He didn't move for a long moment, mentally running through some of his latest, more disgusting experiments. It wouldn't do to try and leave with a raging hard on. He took another deep breath, trying to will his rapid pulse in to calming down. "Yes." He agreed, then finally shifted so that he rolled off of John and had his back on the bed for a minute, then slung his legs over the side so that he could put on his shoes. With a sigh he finally pushed himself to his feet. Sherlock turned to look at John on the bed, and that was a bad idea, because the sight of him all flushed and spread out on his back- it triggered a smug sense of possessiveness, and it made him want to crawl back in to the bed and finish the job. He cleared his throat. "I will see you later, then." The tone of his voice held promise for what would happen when that 'later' came. Sherlock snatched his coat up from where it had been laying over the back of John's couch. "Goodbye, John. And good luck at work. Text me whenever you would like."

John gave Sherlock a genuine smile  and pushed himself to sit up. "Believe me, I will." He replied, knowing he'd hardly be able to keep his hands off of his phone for five minutes after Sherlock left because he'd want to make contact with Sherlock any way he could. "Thank you for coming over- I mean it. It helped so much, you have no idea."

Sherlock just smiled and gave a slight nod before he headed out the door without a backwards glance, because if he'd paused, if only for a moment, he most likely would not have been able to force himself to leave.

John watched Sherlock go, and as soon as he was gone, he smiled like an idiot. There was that aching loneliness there, but he was also grinning. That magnificent creature was all his. The whole Victor thing hurt him, but he knew who really owned Sherlock's heart. And everything else of his. "Mine." He said again, this time resisting the urge to giggle to himself as he flopped over, staring up at the ceiling and imagining how wonderful his break would be before he went off to have himself a wank in the shower. He wondered if he could make Sherlock feel it through the bond. Wouldn't that be interesting?

Sherlock could indeed feel it over the bond. He stumbled on the perfectly smooth sidewalk when he felt the first bit of arousal from John, then had to stop in the middle of the walkway to steady himself. He very hastily hailed a cab, and spent the entire time John was in the shower hunched up in the back seat, his own hard-on back with a vengeance. The cabbie kept glancing in his rearview window, probably wondering if Sherlock was under the influence of something, because he kept making soft little needy sounds. He snatched out his phone and fired a text for when John finished and got out of the shower.

_You are a horrible, teasing person and I am going to make you regret that. - SH_


	29. Chapter 29

Sherlock hunched down so that he was eye level with the kitchen table, very carefully measuring out a bit of liquid from a test tube. Standing, he took the new vial and slowly, very slowly, poured it in to a glass containing another liquid. He waited for a moment, watching for a reaction, then jerked back as the thing started to bubble and fizz. He got his arm up to cover his eyes in time, but the glass shattered and dug in to it, and the now corrosive concoction burnt through his shirt and to his skin. It hit his chest as well, and he let out a pained yelp, stumbling back and towards the sink. He tore off the shirt, tossing it in the sink, and quickly flicked on the tap water, washing off the liquid as fast and as thoroughly as possible. Through the bond John could quite suddenly feel Sherlock's pain, and the dread the came from fearing what the damage would be. Sherlock squeezed his eyes tight as the water ran down his arm. Once it was mostly clean he made his way in to the bathroom to jump in the shower. His arm took the most damage, but his chest was burning still as well. The water hurt splashing down, and he found himself making pathetic whimpering noises.

John felt it, and it tore through him, the sudden need to see his mate. He was on the job now, in uniform, with his partner Bill. Luckily they were just patrolling the area the gangs seemed to frequent, looking for incidents today. He gasped, and then turned to Bill, who caught his eyes, giving him a questioning look. "I have to leave." John said. "It's important. I can't explain it, so please don't ask me- Just tell the boss that I'll explain when I get back, and besides that try to keep it hush hush. Okay?" When Bill nodded, mesmerized, John took off his gun, pager, and other accoutrements and got out of the car as it stopped at a red light. He didn't bother getting a cab, he just ran as fast as could be considered conceivably human. Sherlock was hurt and he had to be there, couldn't leave anything up to chance. It only took him ten minutes to get to Baker Street and up the stairs. "Sherlock?" He called out, hoping that Sherlock had felt him coming and was still okay. He could feel echoes of Sherlock's pain and anxiety, but that wasn't exactly reassuring. He followed the sound of the shower into the bathroom, hoping to find Sherlock there.

Sherlock had spent the last ten minutes simply standing under the water, letting it wash him thoroughly clean, but now he was leaning against the back of the shower, letting the water just mist on to his chest and arm instead of being under the direct flow now. His head was tipped down so that he could look at the ruined, bloody, peeling mess of his chest and arm. Sherlock was in the process of switching off the water and climbing out when John entered the loo, and Sherlock looked up, eyes clouded with pain. "Hello," He said in a strained sort of voice. "You did not need to come, aren't you working?" He asked, trying to keep the intense pain from showing in his tone. Sherlock attempted to exit the tub without jostling any of his new wounds, but he still winced when he finally stepped out and straightened up, allowing John to see the mess that was Sherlock's skin. "I'm probably going to need to pass out now." He told John, only semi-serious. He needed to recuperate, but he most likely wouldn't fall down unconscious from just this.

It was obvious from John's uniform that yes, he had been working. "This is more important." He said instantly, trying to reign in his terror at Sherlock's bloody state. Fuck, this was the kind of things some humans _died_ from. Sherlock was damaged, might be permanently damaged and...He was in a hell of a lot of pain, that was obvious. Chemical burns, John could tell just from looking at him, and while the water had helped to was some of it off, it had overall done more damage than good. "Shit, Sherlock." He breathed, coming to step forward in case he did just fall down. He hooked Sherlock's uninjured arm around his neck and looped one of his own around Sherlock's back. "Let’s dry you off and get you to bed, Sherlock." He said, grabbing a fluffy towel as they went. "Do you think you can make it there? Then you can pass out all you like."

Sherlock hadn't even noticed John's uniform, really. That was how spaced out with pain he was at the moment. Missing incredibly, ridiculously obvious things like that would have irked him, but he really couldn't care right now. He leaned heavily on to John's shoulder, wincing again as the shifting and moving pulled the skin of his chest. "Mm, no. No bed. Well, just," he had to pause here to hiss out a breath as he stumbled slightly. Everything flared up again like white hot agony, and his vision flashed black for a moment. He took a steadying breath before continuing. "Just curl the towel up like a nest on the bed. And then I'm going to need you to look away. I can't- I can't shift with you watching. With anyone watching." He wasn't explaining himself very well, in fact he hadn't even said what he was going to do really, but for once Sherlock did not care how intelligent he sounded. Everything could just bugger off and let him be delirious. He didn't want anyone here for this, but he knew, could feel it over the bond, that John wouldn't be leaving him in this state. He was being a good mate. Sherlock would have to reward him for that later.

John swallowed, nodding. He could assume what Sherlock meant by “shift”. And by his reaction to John’s own animal form, he could tell Sherlock didn’t like doing this, but John wouldn't let him be embarrassed by this. He needed to heal. John wasn't just going to leave him alone, but he could avert his eyes while Sherlock changed. "Of course, Sherlock." He said, now more or less muscling the man into his bedroom and settling him down on the bed, trying to not let the pain and the feeling of Sherlock's danger make him nauseous. He did as Sherlock asked and curled up the towel, and then couldn't help himself from taking Sherlock's face and pressing a quick kiss to his damp brow before he turned away. "Don't worry, Sherlock, I'll take care of you."

Sherlock crawled carefully on to the bed, sitting next to the towel John had arranged. He closed his eyes, trying to build up the concentration he needed to make the shift. After a quiet moment it took over, and in his place sat a large bat, its wings folded in to cover his chest. The one wing's membrane was thin and looked injured. A high pitched squeaking noise alerted John to the fact that he had finished. Sherlock flapped his uninjured wing, trying to indicate he would like John to place him on the towel. Every old instinct bred in to him insisted it was wrong for another vampire to be witnessing this. He told it to shove off.

John turned slowly, worried he was going to be seeing something wrong, but all he saw was a little bat. Well, of course, it was large as far as bats went, but it was tiny compared to the long man it had been just a moment ago. Really the little thing was cute, but that wasn't so important right now. John sat on the bed beside it, carefully cradling it in his hands, and gently placed it in the towel. It felt good to be helping Sherlock this way, even though the man's obvious pain made him sick to his stomach and it was obvious that being seen like this was unwelcome. He wasn't sure what he was supposed to do now, but he couldn't help himself from taking the pad of one index finger and gently running it over the bat's little head.

Sherlock wiggled slightly, not enough to hurt himself, but enough to show that he appreciated John's attempt at soothing him. He chirped again, a high pitched warble that was oddly adorable for an animal with its reputation. Being like this, it was already starting to help. There was a lot less to heal when he was a bat, and the process was sped up anyway. Give him a couple hours, and he would be well enough to move about. By tomorrow, he'd be completely normal, and there most likely wouldn't even be that much of a scar. His arm might be slightly discolored, and his chest might have a few spots of shiny pale scar tissue, but that would be it. Sherlock looked up at John and squeaked again, a sense of gratitude washing over the bond, speaking for him while he did not have the advantage of English.

John smiled slightly down at Sherlock. "I'm glad I'm here." He said in response to the gratitude. "And, for the record...I'm not the only one who is adorable when I'm a bit...fuzzier." The words weren't mean or teasing, they were true, loving words. He didn't know a thing about bat care, but he knew about Sherlock. The man would do best if left to his own devices. He would probably feel better if he wasn't loomed over by a person the entire time. John thought about it, and then changed, taking a moment to walk around the towel and then curl up around it, resting his chin in the towel itself so Sherlock could reach him if he needed him. John blinked big round eyes at him and quietly started purring, hoping some of his body heat would reach Sherlock and soothe him.

Sherlock flapped a wing in surprise, the instinctual response to a larger animal being to run, but his human -well, vampire- brain kicked in and overrode it. Another warm wash of gratitude, mixed with a strong sense of love, and then Sherlock hunched down and wrapped his wings about himself, planning to rest and sleep and, hopefully, heal. The quiet purring noise from John was a bit loud to his very sensitive ears, but it was a comfort to him all the same. It meant John was near. Sherlock drifted off to sleep listening to it.

John opened one eye to check on him every so often, but besides that he slept too, dozing in and out of dreams in the way that only really a cat could. Sherlock...John could only hope that he would feel better soon. He hated the memory of Sherlock’s disintegrating skin. It was too much to handle. If Sherlock hadn't gotten that shirt off so quickly those chemicals may have burned straight through his flesh and to his organs. John needed to calm himself down. As much as Sherlock's blood was delicious, the smell when it was effectively cauterized was terrible. But now he smelled like bat, and that was surprisingly a good smell. At least, for a cat it was. Very woody, but not quite like catnip.

Sherlock slept like he was dead for quite a few hours, recuperating and healing himself. He barely moved, barely made any sort of noise. In the dead of the night Sherlock woke and rotated his wing joints, pleased to note that the one wing did not hurt so badly anymore. He glanced around, saw that John was still dozing, and very carefully wiggled his way out of the towel nest. He shifted back to his normal human form then, and he glanced down at his chest to find that it was red and swollen, but no longer an open, disgusting wound. He almost smiled in pleasure at being nearly whole again, but then he remembered that his experiment had failed - and not even in any way that could prove useful. He shifted around very carefully and stretched out his good arm while keeping the still sore one close to his body, to stroke a hand down the back of the cat in his bed. "John," He said quietly. Now that he was much more coherent and could think again, he realized how much he must have worried John, enough to make him drop work and run here. Sherlock's eyes swept along the floor until he spotted John's discarded uniform. He sighed. Sherlock felt bad for causing John such worry, but he had to admit it was nice to have him here, to have that offer of comfort and care.

John perked up slowly at his name and at the warm hand through his fur. His tail flicked a little, and then he stretched, waking up a bit more, and changed back under Sherlock's hand, spreading his whole body across Sherlock's bed. He lifted his head up at Sherlock and blinked the sleep out of his eyes. He gave a little smile before he remembered what had happened, and then his eyes filled with worry. "Are you alright, Sherlock? Are you feeling better?" His eyes fell over the almost unnatural way Sherlock was holding his arm and the red puffiness of his chest, and Sherlock could feel John's sorrow. "We should get a wrap on those, and some cream so the scar tissue doesn't dry out as it heals." He hummed softly, still ever the doctor.

Sherlock leaned over very slowly so as to not jostle his chest and arm, and planted a soft, tender kiss to John's lips. "That will not be necessary, but thank you for the offer. I will shift back later and allow that to finish healing me. I simply get...claustrophobic, I suppose, when in that form for too long. I highly dislike it. But," He said, glancing down at his pale chest marred by the angry red, "It certainly does its job like it should." Sherlock glanced back to John and smiled softly. "I want to thank you for coming over, John. You didn't have to, but I am glad that you did. Will your superiors not be upset with you, though?" Sherlock moved around so that he could lay himself down besides John, hissing in discomfort while he did. It hurt a lot less, yes, but it still did not feel lovely.

John winced at Sherlock's noise. He didn't like this, not one bit, but what could he do? He wouldn't tell Sherlock when or when not to change, clearly that was something very private for Sherlock, but at the same time he wished Sherlock would just stay that way until he was better. John could make sure nothing bad happened to him. "I had to come over. You were in danger." He wouldn't argue on that point. There was very little that could have kept him from Sherlock at a time like this. "As for my boss, I'll just glamour him. Hopefully word hasn't gotten out too far...I'll do damage control. And if it's necessary, I'll just... Go. I'll find someplace else." John's eyes kept looking over Sherlock's body, as though to make sure that he was alright. He didn't like the idea of leaving Sherlock for even a second if something like this might happen again.

Sherlock shook his head and reached out to lace their hands together. "I dislike the idea of you leaving your job just for this. It's not worth it." He might have liked having John here, yes, but from a practical point of view, he did not need him to be and it would be a shame for John to have to restart again at another precinct. A part of him was begging him to grab hold of his mate and keep him here until Sherlock was no longer vulnerable, but the rational part of him was telling him that he would be fine by the morning and that John should go and take care of what needed done. To Sherlock, this life that John had finally built up was more important than him being in a bit of discomfort, and he did not want to be the cause of John having to change anything.

John tore his hand way from Sherlock's and sat up. "You just don't get it, do you?" John's heart was pounding in his chest, and he knew he was being irrational, but he was feeling so pent up now, between the stress of having Sherlock back, and the stress of waiting for him, and the stress of being tired from work all the time, and the stress of knowing that the last person to lay a hand on Sherlock's body hadn't been him. He had to make Sherlock understand. "You're mine. I can't just let you hurt yourself this badly and wait idly by across town hoping you aren't dying! I can't let you die at all if I could have done something to prevent it." He shook his head. "This isn't some silly little tryst for me, Sherlock. I love you and you take a priority. Especially when I would have just spent the day in a patrol car otherwise. Whatever happens at work, I'll take care of it. I'd rather be here, making sure you're not lying on the kitchen floor bleeding out."

Sherlock blinked up at him in surprise. He got his elbows underneath of himself so that he could tenderly rise up, now level with John. "Shh, it's alright," He said, taking John's hand again and stroking his thumb over the back of it, trying to calm him. "I understand. It is not some tryst for me either, John. I love you as well, but I do not want you to drop your life like that for me. You left in the first place to build it, and I will not be responsible for you losing it. Who knows, you might decide to leave again to get it back," It was a fear of his, deep down and never really acknowledged, that John would find he could not balance them and take off again. Sherlock had been so accommodating, so open with his emotions when usually they had to be dragged out of him, and so concerned with John not interrupting his life for Sherlock because of that. It was motivated half by selfishness, because he did not want John to leave again. In the night, when he was lying there alone, a voice whispered to him that he could not possibly be enough, and at times he began to believe it. This was one of those times. "I will always be yours. But I am not bleeding out on the floor. I'm fine." Sherlock cupped John's face with the hand from his ruined arm, ignoring the pain of moving it. "Of the two of us, you are the one more strained. You are trying to balance this, and it is not working. I have more cause to worry about you than you do of me. You seem ready to burn out, John."

John shook his head, dislodging Sherlock's hand again. "I'm not going to leave you, Sherlock. If I can't balance this life with you, I'll find a new life. I'll keep building new lives until I find one that fits you in it." He swallowed. He hated this, hated that Sherlock took such a priority, but it was different this time, wasn't it? He was doing this for Sherlock's sake, not his own. It wasn't about him needing Sherlock anymore. It was about protecting him.  Maybe he could even build a life off of that? Something inside John told him he was panicking, and jumping too quickly into situations he didn't want to be in. That little voice said that he hated this, hated the possibility of losing all that he'd gained. But he couldn't help it. This was _Sherlock_. "I'll figure it out. I'll deal with it. I'll..." He was breathing a little harder now, trying to keep himself from freaking out.  He didn't know if seeing Sherlock again was saving him or breaking him, and he thought that maybe if he didn't end it with Sherlock now he might never be able to, but he also didn't know if he should end it. Being with Sherlock felt like being saved, but John just didn't know if it was healthy.  "Damn it!" He hissed, pulling his legs up and gripping Sherlock's hand tight. This had all been so much easier to figure out when he wasn't faced with the proof of just how poorly this was going in the form of his own exhaustion.

Sherlock turned more fully so that he could face John entirely. "Shhh," He said again, voice as low and as soothing as he could make it. John seemed to be coming apart at the seams, and it worried him immensely. Sherlock did not want this, did not want to be the cause for John's emotional upset and his exhaustion. This clearly was not going as John had expected it to. "Perhaps...Perhaps you should go," and it hurt to suggest, but if it would make it better for John, then, well, Sherlock would suck it up and handle it. "For a while. Perhaps three years was...too soon...For us to be trying this again." His hand tightened even more on John's own, and at this point they were cutting off each other's circulation. He hated even thinking this, but he couldn't help it. He wanted John, so much, enough that it still scared him, but even more than that he wanted John happy and content and healthy. Right now, all Sherlock saw was his exhaustion and his distress.

John ran his free hand up through his hair and closed his eyes tight. He should be the one comforting Sherlock right now, helping him heal his wounds. Instead he was on the verge of a breakdown, and Sherlock was telling him to go. For his own good. John wasn't sure if he could handle that. It had hurt even more being away from Sherlock lately than it had in the beginning, and he knew it wasn't any better for Sherlock. John shook his head, and he was terrified because part of him thought that Sherlock was absolutely right. "I don't want to leave you again." He whispered. "I want this to work. I can't go back to the way it was without you again. I.... I-" When he needed Sherlock, that line was crossed. He'd lost who he was. John swallowed and carefully assessed himself.  Could he manage without Sherlock? He dug deep inside himself and found that yes, he was still that strong. It was a terrifying idea, but he could do it if he had to. What he couldn't do was let Sherlock fall into that depression again. He couldn't let him need so much and not have anything to relieve it that he'd try betraying himself again. And he couldn't let Sherlock live in danger like this without someone there to take good care of him. Was that who John really was? Protector? Guardian?

Mrs. Hudson might have been his guardian Angel, but to Sherlock, John was both of those things, along with countless others. But he did not need him. He could live, as he had before, and if his depression meant John retaining his sense of selfe, well, he would suffer it in silence. He had betrayed himself with Victor, that was true. That had settled in to his stomach like an aching ball of pure guilt, and he had felt sickened each and every time they had been together. But needs must. "I don't want you to leave. I'm sure you can feel just how much I do not want that, now that the wall is gone. But I also do not want to see you suffering, and that is all I have seen thus far. This is hurting you, and that is one thing I cannot abide." Sherlock leaned forward so that he could rest his forehead against John's own. "I love you," He said softly, "But I want you to be you. To have your life. I am clearly getting in the way of that." His heart felt like it was in his throat, and there was an odd stinging sensation to his eyes. They felt like they were burning. It took him a moment to realize what was happening, and then he was shocked. There were unshed tears in his eyes, and that had not happened since he was nine years old.

John could see them, and it felt like his heart stopped. Was Sherlock actually on the verge of tears? Because of him, being in pain, and maybe leaving? John shuddered and leaned forward to lay his head on Sherlock's shoulder, one arm wrapping around his neck, anchoring him, but careful not to touch any of his injured parts. He could leave. But should he? John just didn't know. There was so much they hadn't done yet, so many days and nights they could spend together and- a thought occurred then to John. He had unfinished business with Sherlock. "I can't leave you when he was the last one to claim you." Sherlock was his and he still had to prove it, even if it was unfair to claim him and then leave. 

Sherlock shook his head, eyes screwing shut to end the burning there he felt. "I've told you, John. He had no claim. None whatsoever. The only one with any claim to me is you. And it will always be that way." He whispered in to John's ear. He needed John to understand that. John may have a tattoo of Sherlock's name, but John's was etched in to every bit of Sherlock's skin, if only invisible. It was unhealthy, how thoroughly he needed to be claimed by this other man, but there was no denying that it had already happened. He was John's, and he forever would be.

"No. I have to prove it." It didn't matter if Sherlock felt like he belonged to John. John needed to know himself, and he needed to absolve Sherlock of all that guilt. "I couldn't manage being away from you and knowing that I hadn't." He chewed his lip. How could he leave Sherlock after he did that, though? John screwed his eyes shut. "Maybe I shouldn't have ever come back to you." He said softly. It would hurt more this time than it had last time.  He took a deep breath. "I want to try again, Sherlock. I want to make sure that I've exhausted every option. But if I stay with you any longer, I might not be able to leave at all."

Sherlock tensed and tried not to let show how much that hurt, that tiny little sentence. He had been proposing John leaving again, but irrationally it hurt even more to hear John say that maybe he shouldn't have come back in the first place. Sherlock pulled away, gently disengaging himself. His emotions made no sense, but at least he acknowledged that. "I'll stay here, John, and I will try with you. But if I see it is hurting you more than it is doing any good...I will leave myself. I was considering it a while ago, actually." Sherlock gazed at the wall, not glancing over at John at all. "I was going to keep bees out in the country. It would have been simple. And then you showed up on my doorstep."

John swallowed, feeling cold and bereft the moment Sherlock pulled away from him. He didn't want to go. The loudest voice in his head right now was screaming at him to be with Sherlock, to hold him tight and not let him go because he was the best thing that had ever happened to John. He wanted desperately to listen to it. He shut his eyes tight. "Would you be happier living that way? Simple?" He swallowed. He might even want to build a life together with Sherlock, but he couldn't give up the city. If keeping bees was Sherlock's calling now, perhaps John should leave him to it.

Sherlock continued to gaze at the wall, still not looking at the man beside him. He considered the question seriously, and while his heart still felt like it was permanently lodged in his throat, he could at least think about this in a calm manner. "I could be. I'm not the oldest vampire around, but I am still very, very old compared to a human. And at times I find myself weary- of everything. Even of the cases, of the chase and the hunt and the sheer idiocy of others. Mainly I'm tired of the idiocy." Here Sherlock finally turned his head, to lock eyes with John. "But I could not be happy without you, John, no matter where I am or what I am doing. I need you for happiness, regardless of anything else." He was completely sincere, but his voice was low and almost hollow. Mentally it was as if he were already preparing himself to hear John say that he would be leaving again, that he couldn't have both his life and Sherlock, and so he was taking the former.

John shook his head. "That decides it, then." He said softly. He couldn't live his life knowing that it was making Sherlock miserable. John just didn't have it in him. If no amount of bees could soothe the ache in his heart, then John would just have to stay by his side instead. "Can you stay in London a while?" John didn't want to go anywhere. He'd work like a dog forever if it meant he got to see Sherlock on the weekends. Sometimes things just weren't easy, and there was nothing you could do to fix them. He'd just have to work his hardest to keep himself the way he was. Even if he lost himself, though, and became the old, needy John again...At least Sherlock would be happy.

Sherlock wouldn't truly be happy, though, if John reverted back, because it meant John was not the way it he wanted to be. In this, it seemed they were at a standstill. "I was bored before, John. That was why I wanted to leave, to go keep bees far away from humans. But you are here, and I am never bored then. I'm content to stay in the city. As long as you are with me." Sherlock smiled at him, but it did not fully reach his eyes. It still bothered him to know how hard this was on John. He felt like he was doing a rather poor job at being this man's mate.

John begged to differ. Sherlock would give him up so John could live his life, so John could be happy. Sherlock had come just as soon as John was even unhappy. It was John who felt like he wasn't adding up, unsure if he would stay. "I'll stay with you, then." He said softly. Sherlock deserved someone who was real and determined as much as John did. He'd make this work, he had to. "And we'll stay here in the city until my time with this precinct is up. Then we can take a vacation in the countryside for a few years. We'll be together." He swallowed and tried to make light of the whole thing. "But if we're not going to Christmas with Mycroft then we're coming to Christmas with Harry, as long as she's alive."

Sherlock shuddered in mock horror, then winced in pain, but plowed on anyway. "Fuck, we are never, ever going to Mycroft's for Christmas. Ever. That would involve seeing Mummy." He very seriously stared in to John's eyes. "We are never. Ever. Seeing Mummy. Harry's it is!" He tried to make light of it as well, and he was smiling softly, even though the thought of meeting the infamous Harry Watson was slightly worrying. Would she blame him for taking away her brother's humanity? Probably.

John actually frowned at him a little at that, though. He was glad that they had changed topics, even though nothing had been resolved. He didn't want to talk about that nightmare anymore. He'd figure it out, or he'd become Sherlock's for good. He'd make Sherlock his life. At least he would know then that it was his choice to do so, and not Jim Moriarty's. "Why can't I meet your mother? And Mycroft...Surely he'll be happy that you're bound to a vampire, won't he?" He chewed his lip. He'd never gotten to introduce Sherlock to either of his parents, so he'd kind of valued the idea of meeting Mrs. Holmes.

Sherlock blinked, the motion slow and slightly exaggerated. "John," He said, words just as slow. "My mother would eat you. She would eat you for breakfast, and then critique on the fact that you were not flavored properly. My mother frightens me more than Mycroft could ever intimidate me." Mummy Holmes was not one to be trifled with. She ruled the coven with an iron fist and a cheerful, warm, happy smile. She would not be pleased to know her youngest was bonded to someone who was only three years old as a vampire. She would be disappointed, and she would judge John horribly, and then dismiss them both for some evening tea with the Queen. "Mycroft would most likely be pleased to know you are no longer human, however not so pleased that you have been gone for three years..." Sherlock chewed absently on his lower lip, something he seemed to have picked up from John. His family was rather complicated. And dangerous. And sometimes bloody. Though, to be fair, most higher ranking families in covens often were. It was a dominance thing.

Even though he'd learned plenty about his new nature and what being a vampire meant over the past three years, he really didn’t know anything about living in a clan. He'd assumed, from Sherlock and what he'd heard, that they were a bloody power struggle- But weren't they also family?  It didn't make much sense to John. Sure, he'd had fights with his family, and he certainly wasn't very close to any of them, but he'd never seen the need to slaughter them to claim a throne of any kind, or anything of the sort. Then again, it sort of did make sense. Vampires were highly intelligent, but they'd evolved socially more like animals than like men. He'd observed them while they'd stayed away from him, in all those dance clubs and bars and cafes meant specifically for their kind. In socializing, there seemed to be much more emphasis on things like scent and sound and body language.  It was fascinating and strange to John, but he figured that it was something he' have to teach himself eventually. "Alright. I won't meet your mother, then." He seemed a little disappointed.

His family was not as bad as it sounded, but it was more vampire than human in the way it interacted. It was only really bloody and violent when there was any fighting for rank going on. Once or twice Mycroft had made a bid for power, before he decided to set his sights on human politics, and each time Mummy had handed him back his arse with interest. It was simply about who had the right to rule the clan. Only the strongest and smartest could; that was how they kept strong. Sherlock had considered it, once, when he was very young, but had quickly discarded the idea. Not for him. Sherlock stroked his fingers along the inside of John's wrist, sensing his disappointment. "Is it that important to you? Meeting my mother?" He did not understand that most humans introduced their partner to their family. He'd never dated a human before, and these things worked differently in the vampire world. "I would bring you home with me, if I ever had any plans to return home. I cut all ties to my clan, John. Mycroft is the only one who knows where I am, and I would like it to stay that way." It was a lonelier life, maybe, but it was not filled with power struggles and Mummy trying to fix him up with some nice vampire in an allied clan all the time. Gods, what would she think if she knew he was bonded to a newly turned vampire, and not someone born to it? There was still a bit of prejudice about those things. Not that Sherlock cared one little bit, but Mummy would. Another reason to keep her away from John. No one would be that condescending to his mate in his presence. He'd have to challenge it, and then Mummy would have to hand him his arse just as she had handed Mycroft his.

John shook his head. "Don't worry about it. I trust you. If you say it's not a good idea, then it's probably best we don't get ourselves into that mess." He smiled at Sherlock. He really did trust him. He wanted to be able to prove that they could hold their own in that clan, but...He wanted to be able to manage his own life first, at least. He also wanted to come out of it all alive. "For humans...Lovers are supposed to become family. They get integrated with the rest of the family. For each person. Besides you, Harry's the only family I've got left."

Sherlock was warmed by John casually calling him family. If you did not count Mycroft, and, somehow, Sherlock rarely did, he did not really have any. He'd parted from his clan, and most others of his kind looked down on him for that. It never bothered him, and he didn't need family, but John including him in his was nice. "I suppose I should meet your sister, then, shouldn't I?" He asked, making a concession. If John could not meet Sherlock's family, the least Sherlock could do was to meet his. "I assume she hates me, though." He was thinking aloud now, not really speaking to John, just at him. Who wouldn't hate the person responsible for stealing away your brother's humanity?

John shrugged. "It doesn't really matter. She hates me too. I spent years hounding her about her addiction problem, disappeared to Afghanistan, didn't tell her when I got back, didn't tell her when I died, and didn't tell her I'd become a blood sucking monster until I needed to kip on her couch." He gave a fake smile. "The good news is we have a warm, loving relationship when I'm a cat." Harry had liked that discovery of his. She was a cat person, and a surprisingly good petter. She understood the tummy rub to ear scratch ratio.

Sherlock smiled softly and shifted closer so that he could very slowly lean down and lay his head on John's shoulder, his one arm still held awkward and close to his body. "Well, then. We'll just have to be each other’s family, yes?" He felt sappy saying it, but it was true nonetheless. They were family, bonded mates, and they were in love. It was all simple matters of fact, and there should be no shame in admitting it, even if it made him twinge to be so open with his feelings.

John could feel that twinge in Sherlock over the bond and he smiled softly, taking up running his hand through Sherlock's hair again. Sherlock didn't have to be open with his feelings, not anymore, but John appreciated that he was. Just as that feeling was easily spread through the bond, Sherlock could feel John's continued trepidation and anxiety. He didn't know what to do. He was Sherlock's family, and he wanted him close. That wasn't in question. He wouldn't leave him. But this wasn't working either, and John saw no way out. He just had to hope that this would hold out long enough for him to find a solution.

Sherlock nuzzled closer, just as desperate for close contact now as he had been several months ago. He was very clearly touch starved, and that had never bothered him before he met John, but he'd come to accept it, just as he'd come to accept the majority of the feelings John was able to bring forth. Sherlock yawned, still tired and worn out from the accident earlier, but he mumbled in to John's skin, because he could feel John's turbulent emotions, "Do not worry, John. I will be here as long as you need me to be. And if you need more time, I will still be here. So long as I know you still want me, I'm not going anywhere. I will wait for you." And then he was yawning again, and slowly drifting back off to sleep, soothed by the hand in his hair and the sudden peace he was feeling. John wanted him, and Sherlock wanted John, and so all that needed to be done was to wait. John's job would calm down eventually, and while it did hurt to be separated, and he was positively going mad from want, they could handle this. Sherlock knew they could, because they'd gone three years with absolutely no contact whatsoever. John’s job would eventually settle down, and he would get some time off, and they would work things out. They could sit and talk for hours about what they were going to do, or they could fuck each other senseless for hours.

Sherlock knew, without a doubt, that they would work this out. Because they were not complete without each other. They may be able to live without the other, yes, but they did not thrive. Sherlock Holmes and John Watson were two parts of a whole. They would endure. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, uh...This is actually the end of our roleplay. It kind of died out on us, and we have plans to start up a new Star Trek one instead of trying to continue this one.
> 
> Thanks for reading! :3 It was fun to read all of your comments. They made me grin like a loon, seriously.


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